


Reign

by TheManicMagician



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Underfell, Fellcest - Freeform, Fluff, Fontcest, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Undertale Neutral Route - King Papyrus Ending, Smut, The skells are in a consensual relationship, possessive love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2018-08-10 06:13:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 42,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7833439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheManicMagician/pseuds/TheManicMagician
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Papyrus seizes the crown for himself, and declares Sans his queen. </p><p>A series of interconnected one-shots covering the highs and lows of their reign, and everything in between.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rebellion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A scrappy rebellion with a dangerous weapon threatens to take Papyrus away from Sans.

No expense is spared on the five course meal laid out for the king and his queen. Bread as light and fluffy as a cloud, soup with the perfect amount of seasoning. Thick cuts of beef from freshly slaughtered bovine, vegetables plucked and peeled from the garden that very morning.

Papyrus’ detractors claim he’s ushering in a new era of decadence and despotism, but in Sans’ (slightly biased) opinion, they couldn’t be further from the truth. Asgore had dragged the kingdom down into ruin after his son was killed and his queen went mad. Papyrus has spent his first year as king fixing Asgore’s mistakes, restoring the kingdom to its former glory. His stringent rules and policies could be unpopular, but the king does not need to be adored by the populace, only obeyed.

To Sans’ dismay, corralling the Underground back into some semblance of order has left Papyrus with little time to spend with _him_. Papyrus spends the days training up the new captain of the guard, brokering tax agreements with merchants, going over new infrastructure with engineers and construction workers. Sans splits his days serving as judge for high-profile cases, and dealing with the petty complaints of the common folk. By the time they’ve finished their daily duties, both are exhausted. Sans often passes out the second he hits the mattress, and Papyrus is rarely far behind.

But not today. Today, Papyrus called an end to his meetings at the stroke of four, and Sans pushed back the next trial on his list to the following day. This evening is about _them._

Sans would have been content to spend the night in bed, alternating between fucking and lounging around. But Papyrus intended to really make the most of it, ordering the cooking staff to prepare an especially ornate meal for the evening.

Sans salivates at the obscene amount of food laid out before them, and discretely wipes off drool on his cloth napkin.

Papyrus sits at the head of the table, Sans at his right. At the king’s legs sits his massive hellhound, a dish of raw venison left out for it by the servants. It watches with its sharp red eyes for Papyrus to begin eating before it wolfs down its meal. Sans takes this as his cue to eat as well, carefully cutting his food into bite-sized portions. A few months of manners training has wrung most of the sloppiness out of him. When in public, at least.

“How’s the new captain?” Sans asks, between mouthfuls of filet mignon. Guards are posted by both sets of doors into the room, but Sans can speak freely; the guards won’t dare report back to their captain about the words of their king and queen.

Papyrus stabs a bit of his steak moodily.

“That bad, huh?”

“They’re a placeholder, and everyone knows it.” Papyrus says. “There’s another monster, that goes by the name MK, who joined the ranks not too long ago.”

“He’s better than your captain?” Sans spoons more food onto his plate.

“Not yet, but soon will be. Still, it’s better for MK to climb the ranks with his own prowess than me simply appointing him.”

“Good call.” Sans shovels a cheesy pasta into his mouth, enjoying how it settles warmly in his magic.

“Still, they won’t respect a captain that can’t hold his own in a real fight.”

“We’ll figure something out.” Sans promises. Papyrus huffs in agreement.

The hellhound licks its chops, plate empty. A servant girl glides over, silent as a mouse, to refresh the dish.

Sudden shouts and concussive booms of magic from the hall have Sans and Papyrus rising from their chairs. The hellhound growls, muzzle still matted with blood from its meal.

“Get behind me,” Papyrus orders, in a tone that brooks no argument.

Sans darts into his shadow just as monsters crash into the room, overwhelming the guards posted at the door. A pack of forty monsters, by Sans’ count, and fairly organized. They’d have to be to launch a direct attack on the royal palace itself.

The remaining guards fall into formation. They’re vastly outnumbered, but that hardly matters. This is what they’ve trained for. Papyrus sends out a wave of glimmering bone attacks. The rebels, wedged in a cluster by the door, go down in droves.

The remaining rebels climb over the bodies of the dying, bellowing war cries as they fan out into the room.

Papyrus pushes Sans back from the fight, towards the kitchens. The cooks and waitstaff begin to form a protective circle around the queen.

“Boss, I can—”

“I won’t have you taken from me by some stray attack.”

Papyrus whistles sharply, and his dog-beast bounds over to stay by Sans as its master dives into the fray.

Sans watches impotently through the curtain of shoulders as Papyrus and the guards effectively begin their counterattack.

Papyrus’ years of training show as he takes down his enemies with precise aim and minimal magic, driving bone constructs through his enemies’ chests and necks.

One lone monster manages to slip through Papyrus and the guards, but Sans doesn’t get the chance to so much as summon his magic before the hellhound reacts, tackling the monster to the floor, ripping open his jugular.

Monsters scramble on top of the dining room table, kicking dishes away with their feet, hoping to flank the king. Three guards grip the wooden lip of the table and overturn it, sending the rebels crashing to the ground with the rest of the meal. Several rebels stagger upright, but stumble on the slippery footing and are swiftly dusted by the guards.

The sheer number of monsters present makes the battle confusing and chaotic, and Sans doesn’t realize what happened until he’s too late to stop it.

He hears Papyrus scream, loud and agonized in a way Sans hasn’t heard for years—and then nothing. Sans shoves through his ring of protectors to see Papyrus crumpled on the floor, a triumphant monster standing over him with some kind of electrical baton.

Sans races for his brother as the hound bolts for the one who injured him, leaping upon the monster and tearing chunks of flesh and muscle from his legs.

Sans drops to Papyrus’ side, cradling his head in his lap.

“Boss, Pap, c’mon, don’t do this to me—”

Another monster charges for the royal couple, looking to get a cheap shot in. Sans hurls out a bone attack at them to knock their feet out from under them; a disheveled guard finishes the job, impaling the monster through the chest with her lance.

“Protect your king and queen!” She roars, and the soldiers rally in a tight circle around Papyrus and Sans.

Papyrus doesn’t show any sign of dusting, but he won’t awaken, either. Sans rips open Papyrus’ shirt, buttons scattering across the floor. There’s a faint discoloration, like a burn mark, on his sternum where he was struck. Sans traces the edges of the mark contemplatively. Papyrus’ HP has been chipped down from some lucky shots in the fight, but he’s nowhere near low enough to be rendered unconscious like this. What the hell is going on?

The buzz of magic in the room fades, and Sans glances up. The guards have killed every rebel in the room, save for the one who got the hit in on Papyrus. The hound sits atop him, teeth warningly at the monster’s throat.

“Hook him in the torture chamber for questioning.” Sans orders.

The dog backs off as a guard grabs the rebel roughly by the arm. The rebel screams, unable to support himself on his half-flayed legs. The guard drags his shuddering body from the room, his blood smearing across the ground to mix with the dust of his comrades.

“You.” Sans points to one of the guards at random. “Get that staff to the science department.”

The guard gives a brief bow. He gingerly picks up the baton by the handle, unwilling to somehow activate it by accident.

“And will someone get a goddamn healer in here already?”

The guard who had rallied the others removes her helmet; a cat monster. She cards a clawed hand through her mussed lilac fur.

“I’ve already sent for one, my queen,” She reports. “I also ask that you remain here until we are sure there are no others lurking about in the castle.”

“Sure, whatever. Just get that healer.”

The hellhound pads over, curling beside Papyrus. It noses Papyrus’ hand, and, when he remains lax and unresponsive, keens softly. Sans runs a hand along its fur, soothing the both of them.

After several tense minutes, the healer—a froggit—arrives. Slimy perspiration is gathered on her skin from the hurry over. She hops to Papyrus’ side and begins a scan, green magic flaring up and cradling his flickering soul.

“His HP is reading steady—”

“I already know that!” Sans snaps. “What’s wrong with him?”

The froggit frowns, continuing her scan under Sans’ severe gaze. After a moment more, the healing aura around her dissipates, Papyrus’ soul returning inside his chest cavity.

“His MP has been totally depleted.” She explains grimly. “The meager amount he has left is just barely keeping his body in one piece.”

Sans has magic to spare. “I can give him some of mine—”

“No.” She sighs. “No, my queen. He is now like a newborn. He has to craft the foundation of his magic again on his own. The addition of foreign magic now might wake him up sooner, but would be detrimental in the long run.”

 “So what the hell am I supposed to do? Sit on my hands and wait?”

“As soon as he wakes up, get some food and drink into him to help him build his magic reserves back up. But until then…yes. I’m afraid all you can do is wait for him to recover.”

Sans struggles to speak through the lump in his throat.

“How long will it take?”

“I’ve never seen a case where the MP was depleted to this extent.” The healer admits. “Look at this.”

She points to his elbow joint, which, upon closer inspection, is quivering slightly.

“Tugging on his limbs too hard might very well disconnect the bones. You must be very careful with him until he stabilizes. I would predict three days, at minimum, for him to recover.”

Three days? Sans clasps Papyrus’ limp hand in his own. Not an hour ago, Papyrus had been fine. And now—and now—

“That’ll be all.” Sans dismisses her, dully.

She opens her mouth, as if about to say some comforting platitudes, but thinks better of it. Her mouth shuts again. She bows to the queen, and hops from the room.

Once she’s gone, the feline guard crouches down by Sans’ side.

“My queen. I ask you allow me to carry the king myself once it has been deemed safe.”

“He’s heavier than he might look.” Sans says. His thumb traces idle circles in Papyrus’ hand. “It’d be your head if you dropped him.”

“I can deadlift my own body weight.” She declares. “I’m confidant I can manage it.”

Sans supposes he should be impressed, but finds it difficult to muster any enthusiasm considering the circumstances.

“You got a name?”

“Catty,” She practically purrs. If the queen bothers to learn your name, you have a much better chance than most of advancement.

“What creative parents you had.”

She can’t tell if Sans is being sarcastic or not, so she simply nods.

A guard reenters the room, and heads right for Sans.

“There were a few rebels lingering in the halls, which we apprehended. The bedroom was checked thoroughly and deemed safe.”

“Let’s go.” Sans tells Catty. Papyrus is too exposed, too vulnerable out in the open like this.

Catty straps her lance to her back, freeing both arms up. Gently, she hooks an arm under Papyrus’ legs, the other under his shoulders. Holding him secure and close to her chest, Catty strides from the room, Sans and the hound following closely behind. Servants and guards alike gawk as they pass by. The king never seemed to tire or grow ill, but now here he was, not dusted, but defeated. Sans glares at anyone who stares too long, and they duck their heads instantly, abashed.

Sans is immeasurably relieved when they arrive at the double doors to the royal couple’s bedchamber. He pushes the door open, presenting a room of red cloth and gold trim, furniture carved from dark cherry wood. Candles gutter on Papyrus’ work desk and on the windowsill, bathing the room in light. The centerpiece is the large canopy bed, replete with plush pillows and thick comforters. Catty lays the king down reverently on the bed, then turns to Sans.

“My queen, I will see to it myself that there are two guards stationed right outside the door at all times.”

Sans nods and waves her off. Catty bows deeply, and departs from the room, shutting the door softly behind her. Sans walks over and locks it when she’s gone, as flimsy a defense it may be. The hell-beast jumps up onto the bed, settling into its customary position at Papyrus’ feet.

Sans fetches a pair of pajamas from the closet for Papyrus, a crimson silk. He changes Papyrus out of his formal wear, easing off his boots and clothes, tossing them haphazardly on the floor. He helps Papyrus into the bedclothes, like a child would a doll. It’s unnerving, to say the least.

Papyrus’ bones have grown so cold. Sans recalls sneaking into a private section of their father’s lab as a child, discovering one of the human’s corpses on a slab. They were like ice to the touch, as Papyrus is now.

Sans layers blankets atop Papyrus. It probably won’t have any effect, but what the hell. It can’t hurt.

Sans strips down to his boxers and then slips under the first layer of sheets, next to Papyrus. Sans stares at him, hating how still and lifeless he’s become. Only the most minute rise and fall of his chest indicates he’s still in there.

Sans reaches over, tracing the curve of his lover’s mandible.

“I’m supposed to be the lazy good for nothin’, not you,” Sans scolds him weakly. “So you better wake up soon, okay?”

With a flick of his magic he extinguishes the candles in the room, engulfing it in darkness. Slowly, he drifts off into an uneasy sleep.

~*~

Sans is awoken by knocks on the door.

Bleary-eyed, he pushes himself upright on the bed. He glances over at Papyrus, who doesn’t appear to have moved an inch since the previous night.

When the knock at the door comes again, he scowls, throwing off the sheets from his lap and getting up. Sunlight glimmers warmly through the windows; a glance at the clock tells Sans it’s nearly three in the afternoon. Fuck, he had cases scheduled for this morning. Papyrus usually woke him up quite early, and Sans didn’t think to set an alarm clock.

Sans shrugs on a shirt and unbolts the door and opens it just as the maid on the other side is about to knock again. She lowers her hand, which was poised to knock. Balanced carefully in her other hand is a tray of what Sans assumes is breakfast, covered in a silver cloche.

“My queen. When you did not come down for breakfast we grew concerned.”

“Uh, thanks.”

Sans takes the tray from her. As the scullery maid departs, he looks to the guards posted at the door.

“Any update on the device yet?”

“Negative, my queen.”

“And, uh…the case I was supposed to handle this morning?”

“Aside from the guards and staff, no one has been allowed inside the castle walls since the attack.”

There’s a lot of food on this tray, and it’s staring to feel rather heavy. Sans backs into the bedroom again.

“Notify me as soon as the scientists have something.”

“Certainly.”

Sans shuts the door to the outside world.

He sets the tray on the bedside table, and removes the cloche. An elaborate breakfast of fruits, nuts, toast, and poached eggs is arranged on the tray. Tucked into the corner of the tray is a selection of condiments, including his favorite. Sans grabs a piece of toast and dumps an obscene amount of the yellow condiment on top of it. He gnaws on the toast, crumbs scattering everywhere, some mustard dripping onto the floor. Does mustard stain carpet fabric? He wouldn’t know. Papyrus was the one who cleaned back in Snowdin, the one who did _everything_ —

Sans sets the half-eaten slice of toast down, appetite gone.

He wavers between action. Most of him wants to stay here, to watch over Papyrus in case he awakens. But there’s a pit of anger within him at the thought of the monster who hurt his brother, still alive in a dungeon cell. With the injuries the hound inflicted on him, Sans knows he will not survive long. But death from infection is not enough; Sans needs _blood_ , needs dust that’ll linger in the chips and nicks of his phalanges.    

Sans dresses quickly, in his old outfit that he hasn’t worn since the Snowdin days. The ratty black jacket is a comforting, familiar weight on his shoulders. He keeps the new collar on, though. When Papyrus became king, one of the first things he did was raid the royal coffer for its finest rubies. He had them sewn onto a new leather collar, to let all know that Sans held power and was _his_. San trails a hand across the collar fondly. He’s hardly ever removed it since.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, he looks over to the hellhound.

“Watch over him for me,” Sans orders. The dog gives an affirmative growl, eyes pinned on its master.

With one last glance at Papyrus, he slips into one of the rents in reality and steps into the dungeons. There are rows and rows of cells, fitted with magic-repellent bars. These cells have housed countless criminals of the crown, but are all empty now. Asgore, soft-hearted fool that he could be, kept the dungeons teeming with the scum of the Underground. He said he kept them alive to serve as the first fodder in the human-monster war once the barrier shattered. Monsters muttered amongst themselves that Asgore hoarded them up to limit the LOVE other monsters could gain. Personally, Sans just thinks he was too much of a coward to execute them himself.

When Papyrus came to power, he had every last one of them killed by his hound, effectively getting rid of Asgore’s loose ends and powering up one of his most loyal allies in one fell swoop. Nowadays, if someone commits a crime bad enough that they deserve to be in the dungeons, they’re usually executed in the town square instead.

Shrieks of agony echo throughout the dungeon. Sans follows the screams to the royal torture chamber. The room fits its title; nearly every torture device imaginable is neatly hung on the wall or piled in chests.

The Inquisitor, a brutish boar monster, has the rebel tied down on a rack, pulling the rebel’s limbs from their sockets. The Inquisitor eases off the lever of the device as he spots Sans.

“My queen.” He speaks loudly to be heard over the rebel’s gasps for breath. “What a surprise to see you down here.”

“Has he said anything yet?”

“The bastard’s stubborn, ’e is. I got nothin’ out of him but creative insults about my mother.”

“Let me have a crack out of him.”

The Inquisitor looks slightly put-out at being robbed of his fun, but does back away to let Sans have his turn.

The rebel lifts his head slightly off the rack, glaring at Sans with as much heat as he can muster. Sans summons a bone to his hand, one tip sharpened down to a vicious point.

“You think this will change anything?”

“I think I’ll feel a lot better once I’ve dusted all your little friends.”

“Rot in hell—”

The rebel lets out a hoarse scream as Sans shoves the bone construct into the exposed wound on his leg. Sans twists the bone, really digging it in there. Fresh blood wells up and spills over earlier stains.

“You bitch!” The rebel howls, limbs straining uselessly in the straps.

“Gee, I’ve never heard that one before.” Sans drives the bone harder into his leg, churning around muscle and dislodging bone.

“You’re doing yourself no favors by keeping your mouth shut.” Sans says. “I can do this all day.”

Sans summons a second bone, shoving it in the monster’s other leg just as he’s about to speak. Only when he grows bored of the constant screaming does Sans remove both magic constructs.

The rebel’s body wracks with tremors, cold sweat coating his skin.

“Well?”

The rebel begins to laugh, an unsteady, raspy thing. Sans has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. As far as torture goes, what Sans has done so far has been fairly tame, nowhere near close enough to shatter the monster’s mind.

“He’ll never be what he was. Do you know _that_?”

Sans’ gaze snaps to the rebel, alarmed. The monster leers at him through bloodstained teeth.

“His magic is gone. Your king might as well be dead.”

Sans sees red, and his magic flares instinctively, waves of jagged bones ripping apart the monster until he dusts. The dust spills down through the slats of the rack, trickling onto the floor.

“Clean up this mess,” Sans spits, and steps through the rift again, back into the royal bedchambers.

Papyrus is exactly as he left him.

Sans bends over by Papyrus’ side, gently clinking their skulls together. That asshole had just been trying to frighten him. Papyrus will be fine. Sans has to believe that.

~*~

A week passes, a hush falling across the castle. It’s over twice as long as the healer thought he’d be unconscious, and Papyrus still hasn’t shown any signs of waking. The kingdom responds to their king’s absence. Low level recruits start acting up, itching to advance in this uneasy moment. Projects are postponed. Monsters have started to _talk_ , to wonder—what if Papyrus does not awaken? There were plenty ambitious enough to try to fill the power vacuum. Sans knows they would all fail; the human, before they left, had ripped from them every other monster worthy of the mantle.

Sans should be out in the public, demonstrating the stability of the crown. But the rebel’s words have amplified his anxiety, and Sans spends his days against Papyrus’ cold, unmoving side. He likes to imagine Papyrus is getting warmer, some life seeping back into him, but perhaps it’s only Sans’ body heat warming the bed.

“You have to get up, Papyrus.” Sans pleads. “I won’t do this without you.”

Insistent knocks at the door once again disturb his vigil.

“Go away,” He snarls. “I don’t want to eat anything.”

“My queen, I have a report from the royal scientists.” Comes the muffled response.

Sans stumbles out of bed, throwing on a robe for some preservation of modesty, and opens the door. Catty stands there waiting for him, ramrod straight.

“Speak.”

“Its purpose appears to be exactly what the healer described—it drains all of a monster’s magical energy upon contact. But, more importantly, they discovered it’s powered by a crystal only found deep within Waterfall.”

“…You find the supplier, you find the rest of the rebels.” Sans realizes. Catty nods. “Seek out the base, but discreetly. Dress as a civilian, eager to join their cause—”

The hellhound barks, drawing Sans’ attention. Papyrus is struggling to push himself upright into a sitting position. Papyrus is _awake_.

Sans scrambles over to his side, soul pounding a mile a minute. The hound licks at Papyrus’ face; he gently swats it away.

“Enough, mutt.”

“Papyrus!”

Sans grabs him around the chest in a tight hug, pressing his face into the fabric of his nightshirt, reveling in the pulsing beat of Papyrus’ soul, the new warmth radiating from his bones.

The hound trots over to the door and nudges Catty’s legs. She gets the hint, letting the dog down the stairwell and closing the door behind them, leaving the royal couple to their privacy.

“Pap, Pap,” Sans murmurs. Papyrus’ arms encircle him. “You’re _okay_.”

“Of course I am,” Papyrus says, voice still rough from his long sleep. “As if some pathetic device could defeat the great King Papyrus.”

Sans laughs. Just like that, all his worries drop away. That stupid monster didn’t know what he was talking about. If anything, Papyrus will find a way to enhance his magic, make it even stronger, thanks to all of this.

Reluctantly, Sans disentangles himself from Papyrus. With hands shaking from excitement, he pours Papyrus water from a carafe and hands the goblet to him. Papyrus drinks deeply.

“T-The healer said you should have something to drink, and eat, when you wake up—”

And why, _why_ had he dismissed the maid that morning, he could have given Papyrus some of the food off the tray—

“Sans.” Papyrus is calm as he sets the goblet aside. “Come here.”

He opens his arms, and Sans curls up against his chest. Sans’ hands grab Papyrus tightly, reaffirming that he’s awake and warm and _here_.

“You smell awful.” Papyrus remarks, absently patting his skull. “Don’t tell me you’ve just been lazing around the whole time I’ve been out.”

“H-Hey, give me a little credit.” Sans protests, though what Papyrus said is basically true. “The guards have a lead on the remaining rebels.”

“Oh?”

“And I killed the bastard who attacked you myself.” He says, with some degree of personal triumph.

“Did you now?” Papyrus rumbles. “I suppose such an act deserves an appropriate reward.”

Papyrus has regained enough magic to conjure a tongue. Tilting Sans’ chin up, he engages him in a long, slow kiss that Sans melts into. God, he missed this. After a moment they pull apart again, faces flushed.

“Never leave me.” These past days have been horrible, riddled with anxiety and fear. He doesn’t ever want to imagine a life without Papyrus in it.

“Never,” Papyrus promises, pulling Sans closer. “Never.”


	2. The Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Papyrus grows jealous when Sans flirts with another monster.

Sans fiddles with the back straps of his gown, sighing with relief as the pressure on his chest eases. He might not have flesh and muscle like the average monster, but fuck, he still needs to breathe.

“Are you ready yet?” Papyrus pushes into the dressing room, as commanding and impatient as ever.

Sans takes a moment to look him up and down, appreciative of his outfit for the evening. The black suit accentuates the sharp angles of Papyrus’ body. The robe—a rich scarlet, accented with the royal insignia—draped upon his shoulders makes him look rather dashing. Just the sight of him sends a spike of lust to Sans’ pelvis.

“Sans, what have I told you?” Papyrus scolds him, coming over to grab the very straps Sans was just messing with. He starts to rethread and tighten them again. “You are not to fuss with the handmaidens’ work.”

“Would you rather I pass out?”

Papyrus finishes fixing the straps to his satisfaction. Mercifully, they’re not as tight as they were, but they’re still something of a nuisance.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Papyrus says. He skims a hand over Sans’ dress, coming up to rest on the ruby collar. Sans swallows, a shiver of anticipation crawling up his spine.

But Papyrus’ hand drops away from his neck, and he offers Sans his arm.

“Come. We’re late as it is.”

“Can you be late to your own party?” Sans grouses, but he does take Papyrus’ offered arm.

As they stride through the halls, Sans can feel nervous anticipation bubbling up within him. The ball had been all Papyrus’ idea. To demonstrate the civility and pomp of the new court. To curry favor with the old elite, still chafing at the bit all these months later under Papyrus’ rule, eager to squeeze him out and put in a puppet of their own. Of course, the king could always force them to cooperate, but they’d dig in their heels, find ways to slow production and progress when the Underground needs it most. The ball is an attempt on both sides to reach an understanding they can all can agree on.

Papyrus and Sans slow to a stop as they reach the massive double doors to the ballroom. Two guards stand by at the ready. The majordomo awaits them as well, the curls of his hair elaborately coiffed.

“Ah, you’re here!” He bows dutifully.

Papyrus gestures with a flick of his wrist to the guards.

“Open the doors.”

They obey, pushing the doors open wide, displaying the full magnificence of the ballroom. Chandeliers of pure crystal glisten from their fixed positions in the air. A complete orchestra sits in one corner of the room, performing an ambient melody. The kitchen staff whipped up a veritable buffet, with something laid out to please any type of monster, no matter their taste. Most of the sizeable room is meant to be used for dancing, but elegant chairs have been set out here and there for those who simply wish to talk.

The room is _packed_ with monsters, the crème de la crème dressed in their evening finest. And every last one of them is staring at Sans and Papyrus.

The majordomo steps to the other side of the king and primly announces the both of them, running through all their meaningless, flouncy titles.

Sweat beads on Sans’ skull as his gaze darts around the room, rapidly growing overwhelmed. There are _too many people here_.

Papyrus senses his lover’s anxiety, and subtly leans closer to Sans, offering what little comfort he can considering the situation.

At last, the majordomo falls silent, and they’re free to proceed. Papyrus tugs Sans forward, onto the freshly-waxed ballroom floor. The crowd moves with them like a shifting amoeba, forming into a half-circle to watch the first dance.

And now, for what Sans was dreading more than the crowds, more than the fraternizing: dancing. Sans practiced for _weeks_ for this day, but his hands still shake as they clasp Papyrus’.

The conductor taps his baton on the music stand, and the orchestra transitions into playing a stately waltz.

Papyrus, asshole that he is, dances with a fluid grace, as if he was born to do so. The hundreds of faces surrounding them don’t appear to bother him at all. Sans has always envied that, his brother’s ability to radiate confidence no matter the circumstances.

The style of dance requires that Sans presses close to Papyrus’ chest, so his brother picks up on every one of his muffled swears.

“…fucking _shit_.” Sans tops off the colorful jumble of a sentence, using 130% of his concentration to make sure he doesn’t accidentally step on Papyrus’ toes.

Not for the first time, Sans curses Papyrus’ preference for him in dresses. The bottom frills of the dress brush against the floor, threatening to trip Sans up with every step. Sans’ eyes keep flicking down to their shoes as they perform box steps, a clear giveaway to his inexperience.

The strings climb for the final notes of the piece, and Papyrus dips Sans with a flourish. Sans stares up at him, breathless and riled from the exercise.

The song trails off, and Papyrus eases Sans back up. The applause that follows is probably more polite than anything, but Sans certainly feels he’s earned it. The odds couldn’t have been more stacked against him, and Sans didn’t falter once.

“You did well.” Papyrus says, sounding a bit too surprised for Sans to enjoy the compliment.

Other couples trickle onto the ballroom floor. Papyrus’ grip doesn’t loosen on Sans.

“Boss?”

“You didn’t think we’d be finished after just one dance, did you?”

Sans’ expression betrays the fact that yes, that’s _exactly_ what he thought, what did Papyrus mean that there was _more_.

Papyrus chuckles lowly, drawing Sans back into the proper starting position again as the next song begins.

“I hate you.” Sans mutters sulkily, forced to keep up with Papyrus’ long strides as they whirl across the ballroom.

“Really now, Sans. You’ve practiced for weeks. It would be a pity to waste all that time and effort on one dance.”

Even though they’re still surrounded by others, the music, chatter, and the dancers’ footfalls do well to mask their conversation, giving them some semblance of privacy.

Sans finally stumbles in the middle of the third waltz, tripping over his own feet like a clumsy idiot. The lady behind him in the formation springs away from Sans like a hand from a hot skillet. She narrowly avoids bumping into him, barely dodges Papyrus’ wrath.

Sans recovers quickly, face flaming. The dance continues after the slight hiccup, and gradually, he calms down again. Papyrus smirks at him, but refrains from commenting.

Five dances after their initial step onto the dance floor, Sans flashes Papyrus a look of pure desperation. If he doesn’t pause to catch his breath and grab a drink, he’s liable to just keel over right here and now.

Papyrus knows when Sans’ limits have truly been reached, and takes pity on his queen. As the fifth number concludes, he leads Sans from the swirl of dancers. Clusters of monsters chat amongst themselves at the fringes of the room. Dignitaries wait with thinly-veiled impatience to speak with the king, all just as eager to broker deals with Papyrus as he is them.

Papyrus nudges Sans, nodding his head in the direction of the buffet table.

“Go on then, get yourself something to drink.”

Sans doesn’t need to be told twice. The crowds part as he passes, making his journey across the room rather seamless. He glances back towards Papyrus when he’s halfway there; already, the king has been swarmed by monsters, his towering height the only reason Sans can still pick him out from the sea of bodies. They certainly didn’t waste any time.

The ball is too hoity-toity to supply any beers. Instead, Sans has to settle for water from a dispenser. Mixed in with the chunks of ice it’s got limes or some shit cut up within it, diluting the water just enough that the taste doesn’t really satisfy anyone. Still, Sans is parched, and sucks down a few cups of the subpar limewater within the space of a minute.

“My queen.”

Sans looks up, a bit startled to be addressed at all. He doesn’t have much of a say in Papyrus’ political plans, mostly because he just doesn’t care to. He steps in and offers his advice on the rare occasion Papyrus asks it of him, but that’s about it.

And yet, this monster is speaking to him. Sans appraises him—a seahorse monster, not hard on the eyes if one’s interest lies in aquatic monsters. While his suit is pressed, his black mane is tousled, giving him a rakish quality.

“I couldn’t help but admire you on the dance floor,” The monster continues. His voice is higher-pitched than Sans would have imagined. “Such beauty, such elegance! It stole my breath from me.”

To top off the flattery, the merhorse grabs Sans’ free hand, lifting it to his mouth to reverently kiss his phalanges.

“Might you do me the honor of a dance?”

Sans tugs his hand away. The last thing he wants to do right now is dance again.

“Er—why don’t we sit down and have a chat instead?”

The monster can hardly refuse the queen’s request, so they move from the beverage table to a set of plush chairs.

“I don’t believe I got your name,” Sans says, as he takes a seat. He watches, incredulous, as the merhorse drags his chair up so he sits closer than is proper to the queen.

“Baron Aaron von Charon, at your service.” He actually _winks_.

Sans snorts out a laugh at the ridiculous name. The baron is perturbed, but maintains his charming smile.

“So tell me, Lord von Charon—”

“—Just Aaron, for you.”

“…What is it you do, Lord Aaron?”

He puffs up. “My family is the top supplier of fish for the royal guard. Truly, it is an honor to provide for our noble troops in any way we can.”

“Is that so?” Sans wracks his brain. Could Papyrus use this chump for anything? Could the fish trade be utilized as a bargaining chip for something else?

Baron Aaron leans in closer.

“You know, my father was known for his mussels. But _I_ am known for my _muscles_.”

He flexes, straining the sleeves of his suit jacket with the bulges of his biceps.

Sans can’t help it—he howls with laughter, slapping the arm of the couch with his hand. Heads turn at his outburst, but Sans holds tight to his good humor, refusing to let his nerves get the better of him.

The baron’s confidence is on full blast now, and he whinnies, joining in with Sans’ laughter.

“So, my queen.” The baron’s voice drops suggestively. “What do you like to do for fun?”

Again, he winks at him. Sans is honestly amazed Aaron has lived to adulthood when he’s dumb as bricks—daddy’s influence must really grease the wheels for him.

Sans crosses his legs, adjusting his dress, giving the baron a slight flash of his bare leg. The monster’s brown eyes darken with desire, and good god, was it really that easy? Sans hasn’t even pulled the trick yet where his shoulder strap “accidentally” slips down.

“In my free time, I like to engage in certain…physical activities.” Sans matches Aaron’s suggestive tone. His hand rests at the edge of his chair, mere inches from Aaron’s own.

“Nothing beats a solid workout! My grandfather always said…” The family saying dies in his throat.

“Yes?” Sans presses.

The baron’s ears flatten to his head. Sans belatedly becomes aware of the shadow looming over him. Mouth dry, Sans cranes his head up—it’s Papyrus, seething with a tangible rage, about five seconds away from dusting von Charon where he sits.

Sans is immediately placating.

“Boss, we were just—”

“The queen needs some air,” Papyrus growls out.

He grabs Sans by the wrist and yanks him upright.

“Hey!”

With a look, Papyrus silences him. Keeping Sans’ wrist in a near-crushing grip, he hauls him through the room. Sans’ face burns with embarrassment and mortification. Papyrus isn’t even trying to discrete about this. No one’s foolish enough to stare at them outright, but Sans knows they’re all sneaking glances at the royal couple, whispering amongst themselves.

Papyrus leads him out of the ballroom, and pushes him into the next available space—the coatroom. He shoves Sans forward into the room, and then steps inside himself, slamming the door behind him. Papyrus summons a bone construct and jams it into the door handle; they won’t be disturbed.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Sans snaps.

Papyrus crowds him, forcing him up against the wall, between the racks of hung coats. He slams his hands on either side of Sans’ head, pinning him in.

“Don’t try to be coy, you little shit.” Papyrus snarls. “You know exactly what you were doing.”

“Yeah, rubbing elbows. Making connections. You know, the entire point of this ball in the first place—”

Papyrus clacks their teeth together, almost painfully. His tongue flicks out, pressing against Sans’ teeth insistently. Sans parts his mouth, summoning his own tongue to tangle with Papyrus’. Papyrus kisses him hungrily, and when they part, a string of saliva still connects them like a gossamer spider’s web.

Breaking eye contact with Sans’ half-lidded gaze, Papyrus sinks down to his knees. With one hand he lifts the hem of Sans’ dress, pushing it up past the top of his pelvis.

“I saw the way that idiot looked at you.” Papyrus growls. “And I saw how you looked back.”

Papyrus laps at his pubic arch, and Sans groans as his magic manifests to accommodate him.

“You’re—mm—being ridiculous. I was ah-acting!”

It grows harder for Sans to stay argumentative, to even formulate a proper sentence as Papyrus continues to lick at and suck and worship the wet heat forming between his legs.

“Oh, boss, boss.” Sans moans.

He takes over for Papyrus at holding the dress up and out of the way, so his lover can free his hands up to stroke and squeeze the smooth texture of his femurs.

He bucks his hips forward, needing more, but Papyrus pulls back, holding Sans’ pelvis in place.

“You looked to be having a rather nice time with that buffoon. Laughing like that. _Flirting_.”

“I already _told_ you, Pap, it was for you; all for you.”

Sans’ hips try to rock despite Papyrus’ unrelenting hold.

“I don’t care what another monster can give you. I don’t care if they’d offer to shatter the god-damn _barrier_.”

Papyrus’ hand slips over his slickened pussy, massaging his clit.

“Holy shit!” Sans’ hips jolt at the burst of pleasure.

“You are _mine_. Mine to touch, mine to fuck, mine to do with whatever I please. Only mine. Do you understand that?”

Papyrus kisses his folds before pushing his tongue in further, plunging inside.

“Oh, god, fuck,” Sans’ legs twine around the back of Papyrus’ neck, squeezing him closer. His hand scrabbles for purchase on Papyrus’ skull, trying to push him closer, deeper, he wants more, more, _more_ —

He orgasms with a throaty moan, cum spraying Papyrus’ face, dribbling down his own legs.

Sans slumps down to the floor, legs shaking with the afterglow of his climax, his body unable to support itself. He whimpers, biting on a knuckle as Papyrus licks at the fluid on his face, cleaning himself off.

Then Papyrus grabs him by the collar, yanking him upright again.

“We’re far from finished, Sans.”

Papyrus unbuckles his pants, pushes down the elastic waistband of his boxer-briefs just enough to free his arousal. He palms his cock roughly until he’s fully erect.

“B-Boss, hold on, wait a second.”

Papyrus hooks his arms under Sans’ femurs, lifting his legs off the ground, pressing Sans’ back to the wall. One of his shoes slips off from the rough handling.

“Just give me a minute,” Sans protests. He’s still extremely sensitive down there, still coasting on the waves of his orgasmic high.

Papyrus lines himself up with Sans’ entrance, but hesitates, teasing the folds with the weeping head of his dick. Sans squirms; despite his objections, he wants this desperately. Papyrus presses against him, as if about to enter, but then he reconsiders, pulling back. Sans mewls from the loss of contact, bucking forward, trying to start this himself, but Papyrus won’t let him.

“Please, please, just fuck me already!”

“Who do you belong to, Sans?”

Sans clutches at the sleeves of Papyrus’ dress shirt.

“You, you, you, always you—”

Papyrus enters him, and Sans shrieks with pleasure. His pace is fast and unrelenting as he plows into him. The back of Sans’ head thuds against the wall with every thrust. His tongue lolls out from his mouth, drool running down his chin. Sans’ soul throbs inside his ribcage like a ball of magma. Papyrus is the only one who’s ever made him feel this way—desired, needed, loved.

Papyrus’ pace grows frantic, his breath escaping in sharp gasps.

“Say my name, say it—”

“Pah—Pap, Papyrus, _Papyrus_ —”

Papyrus bellows as he cums, filling Sans up. Sans keeps thrusting around him, generating obscenely wet squelching sounds as their bodies smack together. He follows after Papyrus with his second orgasm of the night.

Papyrus pulls out. Some of his seed follows, adding to the mess coating Sans’ legs.

This time, when Sans collapses to the floor, Papyrus lets him be, and they both take a moment to catch their breath.

Papyrus is, unsurprisingly, the first of them to recover. He wills away the sexual construct, and refastens his pants, smoothing out the creases in his suit jacket and cape. There’s little Papyrus will be able to do to disguise the reek of sex, but that doesn’t seem to bother him in the slightest. He wants those monsters to understand that he has claimed Sans all for himself, in every sense of the world.

“…Come ‘ere a second.” Sans beckons.

Papyrus crouches by him. Sans licks his thumb and swipes it across Papyrus’ mandible, wiping away any last traces of Sans’ cum from around his mouth.

“There you go. All set.”

Papyrus grabs Sans’ hand, turning his head to press a skeleton kiss to the delicate bones of his fingers.

“Don’t worry so much, okay?” Sans brings Papyrus’ gaze back to him. “I’m yours.”

Papyrus huffs, straightening again.

“I need to get back to the ball. I was in the middle of an important conversation when you disturbed me.”

“Hey, you’re the one that came over to me.”

Papyrus’ gaze flicks over Sans, to the sticky, drying mess all over his legs and pelvis. The marks of his claim. His eyes glow with satisfaction.

 “You will return to our chambers. I’ll send a maid back here to clean.”

“You gonna woo someone while my back is turned?” Sans teases.

Papyrus glowers. “Don’t push it.”

After meticulously straightening his clothes for a final time, Papyrus leaves the room.

Sans gathers himself and staggers upright. The inner layers of the dress now cling uncomfortably to his legs. He shuffles across to the door and peers out. He can hear the faint strains of orchestral music through the shut ballroom doors. Everything seems to have carried on fine.

Sans leaves the coatroom visibly, solely so the maid can tell he’s left, and she can begin cleaning.

Once Sans rounds the corner of the hall he teleports back to the bedroom. With a sort of primal satisfaction, he peels off the accursed dress. He kicks off his remaining shoe and slips into the large bed, nude.

Papyrus will pitch a fit about the ruined sheets, but whatever. They smell like dog anyway; they’re due for a wash.

Sated and comfortable, Sans curls up in the bed and begins to drift off. If this is the result he gets, maybe he should piss Papyrus off more often.


	3. Nightmares of the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit to the lab stirs up fears Sans thought he'd suppressed forever. 
> 
> A combination of [two](http://themanicmagician.tumblr.com/post/149671492346/reign-prompt-what-if-one-day-during-some-public) separate [prompts](http://themanicmagician.tumblr.com/post/149632455861/hello-for-your-fic-what-about-sans-with)

The lab looms ahead in the distance, tall and imposing. The sight of it still sends a shiver trailing up his spine. Papyrus looks back at him when he stays rooted to the spot, staring up at the intimidating structure.

“Sans?”

He flushes. He’s stalled Papyrus and the entourage of royal guards, and they’re all staring at him expectantly.

Sans forces an apologetic smile on his face.

“S-Sorry, boss. Let’s go.” He starts walking again.

Papyrus frowns, but Sans knows he won’t say anything when they’re out in public like this. They’re greeted at the entrance to the lab by Zephyr, the newly instated royal scientist. Papyrus had selected well; the eagle monster is massive, a threatening presence with his curved beak and razor sharp talons. Formidable, fearless, with a scientific mind. Far from the stubby, stuttering wimp who served as the previous royal scientist.

Alphys had been a brilliant engineer, even Sans had to admit; her improvements to the Core were enormous and unparalleled. But she could never command a room as needed, many scientists either resigning or carrying on their personal projects without approval. She was emotionally fragile, far too dependent upon Captain Undyne. And when that pillar of support crumbled….well.

Dust had been found in front of the video monitors. Three guesses who it belonged to.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person, my king.”

Papyrus and Zephyr shake hands firmly. The royal scientist bows in deference to Sans as well, something Papyrus visibly appreciates.

The group is ushered inside the building. Alphys’ anime memorabilia has been stripped from the space, replaced with Zephyr’s preference for minimalist décor. Sans finds himself secretly missing the tacky posters of Alphys’ “waifus”.

“I have a few points of my speech I’d like to run by you, if it’s not too much trouble.” Zephyr implores Papyrus.

“Very well.”

Sans tugs Papyrus’ sleeve.

“I want to check on some stuff. See if, uh, any new equipment is needed.”

“There is time yet before the ceremony. I see no harm in this.” Papyrus glances at Zephyr.

“There are no volatile experiments going on.” The royal scientist confirms. “The lab is ultimately yours, and free to use as you see fit.”

Smart, strong, and totally loyal to the crown—Zephyr really is the full package. With approval from them both, Sans slips out of the conversation, and takes the elevator down to the lower level of the lab.

He steps out into the lobby, and wraps his arms around himself to suppress a shudder. Over a decade has passed since that awful time, and yet so much is still as it was. The backlights on the vending machines are still out, no one bothering to replace the burnt-out bulbs. The plastic potted fichus continues to collect dust in the corner.

Summoning his courage, Sans moves further into the lab. He sidesteps several empty dog food bowls along the way. The amalgamates, those pitiful, sad things, had been euthanized by Zephyr upon discovery.

Sans walks through the dark bowels of the lab with purpose. He knows the route by heart, even after all these years, and soon reaches his father’s office. He had never felt satisfied with the setup on the first floor. It was too close to the public, and encouraged too much interaction between him and the other scientists. Down here, in the cold dimness of the lower levels, Gaster was free to work undisturbed.

Sans could teleport in, but what the hell. He bothered to make a copy of the key; he might as well use it. He lets himself into the office, and does a cursory sweep of the room. Alphys never bothered to go in here, and it doesn’t seem like Zephyr has touched it either.

Sans pulls out the top desk drawer, thumbing through old and weathered files until he finds his own. He takes them out, staring at them. He should destroy them. At the very least, he should bring them home, to keep them safe from any prying eyes. But Sans can’t bring himself to do either. If he destroys the files, he destroys the tangible proof of what had happened. If he brings them home, to the palace, their presence will linger in the back of his mind like an unwanted tenant until he reads them again. And, of course, he’d run the risk of Papyrus finding them. After everything he went through to keep his brother from learning about what transpired, it’d be really stupid if it all came out during one of Papyrus’ rigorous cleaning sessions.

He stiffens as he feels another presence in the room.

“ **Sans**.”

He whirls around to see a warped, malformed creature. Its congealed bones are swathed in a robe of darkness.

Fright scrapes his soul raw. Sans’ back slams against the wall, the files spilling out of his hands, scattering all over the floor.

“L-Leave me alone,” He whimpers out.

“ **Sans**.” The creature, the thing that looks so much like Gaster, but _can’t_ be him, lurches closer.

Sans flings his magic out, but it doesn’t catch, as if there’s nothing for it to grab on to. Any bones he summons pass harmlessly through the spectral being.

“Stay away!”

Gaster grabs his hand, and Sans can feel ichor seeping through the joints of his fingers. Gaster pins his hand to the wall, leaning over him, overwhelming him.

“S-Stop!”

Gobs of black fluid drip down, pouring down his eye socket, dripping into his soul.

“No no no _no_!” Sans shrieks, desperate to get away.

“Queen Sans!”

A frantic voice breaks him form his reverie. One of the guards is here before him, grabbing his hands to keep him from clawing at himself.

Sans lists slightly to the side to look around the guard, manically checking the room: Gaster is gone. Sans looks down at his hand. White bone, unblemished by black stains.

“Wh-What are you d-doing here?” Sans asks the guard, wincing at how feeble he sounds.

“The ceremony will be starting momentarily. I was sent to fetch you.” The guard radiates concern. “Should I get King Papyrus for you?”

Sans tugs free from his hold.

“No. No, I’m f-fine.”

The guard forces the skeptical look on his face to something more neutral. He offers Sans a hand up. He accepts the aid, knees weak. He shoves the documents back into the folders and stuffs them back into the desk. Once the guard is outside the door, he makes sure to lock the room up tightly behind him. He’s grateful that the guard makes no further comments as they move through the lab, returning to the others.

Once by the entrance to the lab, Sans can hear the gathered monsters waiting outside, both press and interested civilians.

He sidles up to Papyrus’ side, entwining their hands for some much-needed support. Papyrus can tell instantly that something is wrong, and excuses them both from the conversation, moving away to give them privacy to talk.

“I c-can’t go out there.” Sans hates to disappoint Papyrus like this, but he’s too badly shaken. “I can’t t-talk to them, I _can’t_ , I need—”

“Sans.” Papyrus runs a gloved hand along the queen’s skull, soothingly. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Sans shakes his head wordlessly.

Papyrus sighs, and Sans feels lower than dirt.

“You need to show your face today, especially since the lab is going to be under your direct supervision.” Papyrus taps his foot, thinking quickly. “I can handle your speech. But you need to be at my side.”

“O-Okay.”

Papyrus pulls out a handkerchief, dabbing away the sweat from Sans’ skull.

“We need to get out there now. But we _will_ be discussing this later.”

Sans ducks his head. “Yes, b-boss.”

Papyrus takes Sans’ hand, tugging him back to the others.

“Are you all set?” Papyrus asks the royal scientist. Zephyr nods, and so they all step out of the lab.

A temporary stage and podium have been erected for the presentation. A hundred or so monsters are seated below, but rise as the king and queen emerge.

They all settle again once the royal couple have taken their seats on the stage. Zephyr approaches the podium first.

The royal scientist’s voice is an incoherent drone in the background, as Sans focuses on keeping up a calm façade. He can feel the panic attack creeping up on him, but he knows he can’t let it affect him here. Not with everyone watching like this. He’d be exposed as a weak, helpless queen, and god, Papyrus would look like a fool. He’d spurned many prestigious, powerful houses to keep Sans at his side. Sans’ reputation reflects directly upon his own, and Sans refuses to blow everything over something so stupid.

Sans shivers. It couldn’t have been Gaster, despite how real it had seemed. His father is long dead. It was just some specter, summoned to life by his paranoid imagination.

Right?

Papyrus’ hand settles overtop Sans’. He glances over at him, flashing his lover a grateful smile. His proximity has the uncanny ability to drive away Sans’ anxieties. He blocks out the world, focusing on stabilizing himself, drawing strength from Papyrus’ strong and unyielding presence.

That is, until Zephyr concludes his speech, taking a seat. Papyrus gives Sans’ hand a quick squeeze of farewell before he rises, making his way gracefully over to the podium. Zephyr glances at Sans is askance, confused by the change up in speaker, but he’s not about to call too much attention to it.

Papyrus explains the careful selection of the new royal scientist, the broad plans for remodeling the Core, the queen’s role in overseeing the entire process. Papyrus’ rhetoric is smooth and calm; one would never suspect he took up the speech at the last moment.

Relief washes over Sans as Papyrus concludes his speech. The crowd disperses slowly, and Zephyr comes up to the king to exchange a few last pleasantries. Then Papyrus strides over to him, and takes Sans by the hand, pulling him up out of his seat.

“We’re going on ahead,” Papyrus announces quietly to the guards. “You are dismissed for the day.”

They all dip their heads in acknowledgement. Papyrus leads him back into the lab, where Sans can use his power in private. His teleportation ability is not well known, and Papyrus likes to keep it that way.

“Take us home, Sans.”

Sans grips Papyrus’ arm tightly and pulls them both into their bedroom.

Being in familiar, safe surroundings unleashes everything Sans has restrained until now. His breathing shallows in his ribcage, and before he knows it he’s outright hyperventilating. Papyrus steers him to sit down on the bed, and takes a seat beside him. Papyrus rubs circles into his heaving back; he’s grown used to comforting Sans through these episodes.

“It’s alright, it’s okay, everything’s fine…” Papyrus keeps up a steady mantra of reassuring nonsense, and slowly, slowly, Sans settles again, his breathing levelling out.

As the attack winds down, he cozies up against Papyrus’ side. He’s utterly drained, and the day isn’t halfway done yet.

“Are you feeling better now?”

Sans nods sheepishly.

“We’re taking lunch with the head of the Whimsun Clan soon. Should I cancel—”

“No,” Sans interrupts. “No. I’m fine now, really.”

He doesn’t want to screw up Papyrus’ day more than he already has.

~*~

Papyrus watches him like a hawk throughout the rest of the day. While Sans is flattered by his concern, it’s wasted on him; he carries out his queenly duties throughout the rest of the day without a hitch.

It’s when they’re settling in to sleep for the night that his anxiety makes itself known again.

Papyrus is off in the adjoining bathroom, brushing his teeth. The hellhound is situating itself at the foot of the bed. (When they first moved here, Sans had tried shoving it off the bed every night, but the damn beast kept jumping right back up, and Sans ultimately surrendered.)

Sans scratches the dog between the ears as he eyes the bed with some measure of trepidation. He’s been prone to vicious nightmares before, and he’s sure tonight will be one of those nights.

He jumps as a hand lands on his shoulder, and feels foolish as he realizes it’s just Papyrus.

“Try to get some sleep.” He says. Papyrus waits until Sans climbs onto his side of the bed before he douses the candles.

Fear makes him restless, and Papyrus actually manages to fall asleep before him for once. Sans listens to Papyrus’ breath even out into deep sleep before exhaustion at last pulls him under.

~*~

He’s strapped down onto the chair. The leather restraints creak but will not snap, no matter how hard he thrashes.

There’s a hiss of air as the door slides open, Gaster joining him in the room. He’s carrying a jar and a spoon, innocuous on their own, but Sans is sure whatever is in the jar can’t be anything good.

“Open wide for me, Sans.”

He shakes his head mutely. Gaster’s magic forms two violet hands, which pry his teeth apart.

“There we are. I don’t understand why you must always fight me every inch of the way.”

Sans can hardly speak with his mouth wedged open like this, so he settles for a heated glare.

Gaster unscrews the lid to the jar, setting it aside. He scoops out a spoonful of the substance inside, and the sight of the greyish powder has Sans beginning his struggles anew. Gaster simply summons more hands, keeping Sans’ head stuck in place.

Gaster leans forward and shoves the dust through his open mouth. Sans tries to gag—it tastes like chalk and ash, it _burns_ as it goes down—but Gaster prevents him from bringing it back up. He swallows it down, and dear god, he can feel his magic digesting it, breaking it down and adding it to his energy, to who _he_ is, and he doesn’t want this—

Gaster forces another mouthful down. Tears prick the corners of Sans’ eye sockets.

His father tuts at his vulnerability and smacks him.

“Don’t be so pathetic. There’s no pain involved in this.”

Gaster continues to feed him. Dust is smeared across his mouth, stray particles lodged in his teeth.

“How many monsters do you think it took to fill this whole jar?” Gaster asks, conversationally. “Fifteen? Fifty?”

He relaxes his magic on Sans’ jaw enough to let him speak. But Sans won’t give him the satisfaction of a response, so Gaster scrapes at the bottom of the container, presenting Sans with the last dregs of dust.

“Do you know who killed them for you? It was—”

~*~

Sans jolts awake, gasping, his bones rattling softly. It’s enough to wake Papyrus, ever the light sleeper. Sans can see his red eye lights blink open, peering at him.

“Sans?” His usually-loud voice is a murmur in the night.

Sans’ stomach rebels, and he teleports the few feet from the bed to the bathroom. His hands grip either side of the porcelain toilet bowl and he heaves, half-digested magic dripping out of his mouth to splash in the water. He can still taste the dust, feel its grainy texture as it was poured down his throat. A second wave of nausea rolls over him, and he hunches further over the toilet, puking miserably into the bowl.

Suddenly there’s a hand on his back, and a cup of tap water being held out to him. Papyrus stares at him with full-blown worry.

“Thanks, boss.” He takes slow, measured sips to wash away the acidic tinge of his vomit.

Sans knows Papyrus is just itching to demand answers, but he just can’t handle anything more right now. He fixes Papyrus with his most pitiable look.

“Can we just…go back to bed, for now?”

There’s a pause, and Sans thinks he might actually refuse, but instead Papyrus scoops him up in his arms, carrying him back into the bedroom. The hound was waiting at the door for them, and perks up as they enter, nosing Papyrus’ leg, trying to get to Sans.

“Down, dog.” Ever obedient, the hound leaves them be, and jumps back up to its spot on the bed.

Papyrus sets Sans carefully on the mattress, and even tucks the sheets back in around the both of them.

Papyrus pulls Sans close. He presses his teeth to Sans’ forehead in a skeletal kiss, then tucks Sans’ head under his chin, flush to his chest.

“I’ve got you.” Papyrus rumbles, and Sans can feel the vibrations of his words from their proximity. Sans’ fingers tangle in Papyrus’ nightshirt. His brother’s presence is warm and reassuring, enabling him to drift off once more.

~*~

The second time he’s startled awake, Papyrus is pulling on his boots on a nearby chair, getting dressed for the day.

“Another nightmare?” Papyrus asks, crowding closer to him.

“I’m sorry. I’m just being stupid.” Sans presses a palm to his eyes. He thought he was _past_ this by now.

Papyrus steps away, rummages through their closet, and returns with an outfit for Sans.

“Get dressed,” He says, gruffly.

Sans normally has servants help him into more elaborate dresses, but today Papyrus wants him in pants and a jacket, something Sans can easily put on himself. He changes quickly, only because he doesn’t want to keep Papyrus waiting.

Breakfast is held in relative silence. Sans, both exhausted from his restless night, and nauseous at the sight of food, pushes his meal around on his plate, not even attempting to eat. He’d sneak food to the hound, but he knows he’d never get away with it.

Papyrus occupies his mind with reports from his guard captain, but his gaze keeps straying to Sans, demeanor growing darker the longer Sans goes without eating.

“I’m done.” Sans pushes away from the table. His food has been stirred all around the plate, but not a bit of it has gone in his mouth.

He can’t do this now.

“Where are you going?” Papyrus demands.

“Need some air.” Sans doesn’t glance back as he leaves the dining room.

He meanders through the castle, taking random paths until he reaches the inner courtyard. The servants have tended to it well; rows upon rows of trees and flowers flourish in the enclosed space. So much of the Underground’s natural beauty is trampled down or ripped apart. But this garden has been kept safe from the savage horde. Only the royal couple and the gardeners are permitted entry to it.

Sans has taken to coming here when he’s feeling overwhelmed, a private, pleasant area in which for him to decompress. The smell of flowers ground him in reality; in the lab, the clinical stench of medical and cleaning supplies constantly assaulted his senses.

A cold nose nudges the back of his thigh. The hellhound has followed him out here; and so has, it seems, the beast’s master. Papyrus approaches him, his arms encircling Sans from behind.

Sans leans back into him, hands coming up to gently grasp Papyrus’ forearms. The hellhound bounds off to snap playfully at the butterflies.

“I’m taking you off the lab project.” Papyrus says, suddenly.

“What?” Sans shakes out of Papyrus’ grip, to stare at him incredulously. “You can’t do that.”

“You were in the lab a single day, and now you can’t sleep through the night. Your duties would leave you obligated to return to the lab frequently. Clearly this was a mistake.”

“It can’t _be_ a mistake, Papyrus.” Sans is tired, already at the edge of his temper. “You’re king, you’re not allowed to make mistakes like this. Putting someone else on the project would look bad, and you know it.”

“Then we won’t announce it publically. But I won’t have you back at the lab.”

Sans’ hands clench into fists. His stance is wide, defiant.

“You can’t tell me what to do.”

Papyrus grabs him by the front of his shirt, slamming him up against the nearest castle wall. His red eyes smolder with thinly-contained fury.

“I am your king. If I tell you to do something, you will.”

“Get the fuck off of me, asshole!” Sans snarls, and kicks him in the shin.

Papyrus reflexively lets go, and Sans teleports away, falling heavily onto the mattress of their bedroom.

He stares up at the ceiling, which seems to spiral in on itself. His soul pounds in his chest. Teleportation magic saps a lot of his energy, and he’s running rather low between puking up last night’s dinner and then forgoing breakfast.

As his dizziness slowly abates, Sans burrows deeper into the blankets. He can smell Papyrus’ lingering scent and scowls at his brother’s pillow. Who the hell does he think he is? Sans remembers when he had been just a baby bones, a LV 1 monster several feet shorter than him. Sans has been there for nearly every point in Papyrus’ life; he knows all about his failures and blunders, his insecurities buried deep inside. Papyrus can’t pull rank on Sans, of all people.

Papyrus cannot control his life. No one will, ever again.

An indeterminable amount of time later, there’s a knock at the door.

“Go away, Papyrus.” He says, churlishly. His anger still simmers away inside him, hot in his gut.

But the voice that answers back is soft, feminine—a servant.

“My queen, may I have permission to enter?”

“…Sure,” He grunts.

She steps inside, closing the door behind her. Sans pushes himself upright on the bed.

“The king has bid that I prepare you for his meeting with the Drake Clan head.”

Sans drags a hand over his face. That’s right. Papyrus has devoted the next few weeks to meetings with each clan, to assure them that their individual needs are heard. It’s tedious work, but Papyrus thinks it has to be done.

“Yeah, sure.”

Sans follows the servant out to the dressing room. He grimaces at the dress laid out for him, tiered black ruffles with red trim. He strips, face flushing. He’s still not used to someone dressing him, to anyone besides Papyrus seeing the chips and cracks that litter his bones. But the servant is fast and efficient, helping him into the gown with practiced ease and nary a comment.

He stares at himself in the mirror. His complexion is sickly and sallow, noticeably different from the alabaster sheen it should have. The servant smoothens concealer cream over his cheekbones, disguising his poor health.

Her work finished, the servant hands Sans off to a pair of royal guards, who must have arrived while he was getting changed. They lead him through the castle, to one of the many reception rooms. It’s one of the finer ones. The tapestries hung on the walls predate their push below the earth. The furniture is made of the finest wood, ornately carved. The mantelpiece above the fireplace has gilded gold figurines. Out of courtesy for their frost-inclined guest today, the fireplace is left unlit.

The head of the Drake Clan hasn’t arrived yet; Papyrus is the only one in the room, aside from the guards, when Sans walks in.

Sans takes the seat beside him, and folds his arms, saying nothing. Papyrus glances at him, clearly displeased. Sans glares back at him, just barely resisting the childish urge to flip him the bird.

The minutes stretch by in agonizing silence, the only thing disturbing the quiet being Papyrus’ fingers, drumming against the table.

Finally, the majordomo arrives, introducing their guest.

“The esteemed Snowy Drake, leader of the Drake Clan.”

Snowy struts in, icy feathers fluffed high to display his authority. Still, he has to bow to the king and queen before he can take his seat.

Papyrus and Snowy become embroiled in a discussion of border disputes in Snowdin. Sans fidgets in his chair. The dress itches in odd places, but Sans can’t scratch. He twists his hands in the folds of his dress, just waiting for it to be over.

He’s never even given entrance into the conversation, Papyrus heading Snowy off every time he so much as glances in Sans’ direction. This leaves Sans to stew in his boredom and irritation through the entire meeting.

“Are we going to talk about this?” Papyrus asks, once Snowy has been sent back on his way, and the guards dismissed.

Sans rises, brushing off nonexistent dirt from his dress.

“I don’t think there’s anything to discuss.”

Papyrus grabs his wrist before he can get too far. Again, trying to control him.

“Let me go,” Sans hisses, with real venom.

Papyrus hesitates, but then his grip slackens enough for Sans to yank his hand away and stalk from the room.

He refuses to join Papyrus for dinner that night, spending his time curled up in bed with a thick book on thermal energy. The dress is left inside-out on the couch, Sans changing into his far more comfortable bed wear. The hellhound keeps him company, and Sans even indulges the dog with rubs on its stomach that get its tail thumping.

Papyrus joins him in the bedroom at a quarter to eleven.

“You didn’t join me this evening,” Papyrus states, as he shrugs off his jacket.

Sans turns a page in his book. All the reading has given him a throbbing headache, but he’ll be damned if he clues Papyrus in on that.

“I’ve been reading. Need to brush up on my thermodynamics to help Zephyr out with the Core revitalization.”

Papyrus sighs heavily, dropping down onto the bed beside him.

“I don’t want to fight you.” Sans is surprised that Papyrus surrenders their battle of wills first. “I just need to know you’re alright.”

Papyrus is concerned. He has a right to be, Sans grudgingly admits to himself. Papyrus is so meticulous, so methodical in every aspect of his life, but when it comes to Sans, he never has answers. He never knows how to help (never knows that he _can’t_ help) and it distresses him.

“I’m tired.” Sans says, rather than offer any explanation.

He sets his book aside after marking his page, and lays his head against his pillow. Papyrus lingers by his side for a moment before conceding the battle, preparing himself for bed before joining Sans in sleep.

~*~

Sans pulls against the restraints, the bones of his wrists chafing from the rough handling. His body is weakened, close to starving from days without food.

Gaster enters, wheeling in a cart this time. Sans lifts his head wearily to look. There are five jars today.

“No,” Sans moans, feebly.

Gaster’s magic forces his mouth open wide again. He tries to close down, to bite the constructed fingers, but his magic is too strong.

“We have quite a lot to get through today, so I’m not wasting any time.”

Gaster unscrews the lid on the first jar, and starts spooning mouthfuls between Sans’ teeth.

Sans’ eye sockets clench shut. Each lump of dust is like a jolt of energy to his system, and a part of him craves more and more, to continue to feed, to stay alive.

“I believe we weren’t altering your composition enough, last time. But now your magic is almost at nothing. You’re an empty vessel to be filled.”

One jar down. Gaster sets it aside and opens up another.

“This doesn’t bring me any pleasure, doing this to you. I hope you really believe that.”

Gaster stops for a moment, studying him; there’s still no rise to Sans’ stats. He resumes.

“You’re too weak for the world you were born into. You need this to survive.”

Sans whimpers. His hunger betrays him, and he conjures a tongue, lapping greedily at the next mouthful of dust.

“Oh, goodness.” His father chuckles, brushing stray crumbs from his cheek. “Don’t tell me you’re starting to enjoy it.”

~*~

Sans twists over the side of the bed and pukes. He hasn’t eaten anything recently, so all that comes out is stringy bile.

There’s no soothing hand at his back. A glance at the clock on the nightstand tells him it’s late morning, well past when Papyrus typically wakes up. He’s alone; not even the dog is around.

Sans staggers upright, head swimming. He grabs one of his old t-shirts from under the bed, and uses it to clean up the mess. God, he’s so fucking pathetic.

He turns as the door creaks open. It’s Papyrus, balancing a tray of food. He’s surprised to see Sans up, and sets the tray on the nightstand before crouching beside him.

Sans scrubs at the mess with renewed, embarrassed vigor.

“I’ll, uh, clean it up—”

“Stop, Sans.” Papyrus pries the shirt from his nerveless hands, and sets him back on the bed.

“You didn’t eat a thing yesterday, and I won’t let you destroy yourself like this.”

Papyrus spoons up some oatmeal, holding it out to him.

“Now eat—”

“No!”

Sans smacks the spoon away. It clatters to the floor.

“Sans, you can’t go on like this—Sans?”

Sans has shoved himself against the headboard, bones rattling with fright.

Papyrus grabs some fruit off the tray, offering it to him.

“Sans, please, just—”

Sans teleports, face-planting into a bed of golden flowers in the garden. Their stems snap under his weight. Sans curls in the dying flowers, clawing at the dirt beneath. Morning dew seeps into his clothes. Everything here is natural, safe. Sans takes a moment to just _breathe_.

It’s not long before Papyrus finds him again, and hefts him up in his arms. Sans clutches at his brother’s shirt, tucking his head into the crook of his neck.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Sans gasps out. Papyrus shushes him.

He’s brought back to the bedroom, and eyes the tray warily.

“I won’t make you do anything,” Papyrus says, sounding worn. “But please, just. Eat _something_.”

With shaking hands, Sans dumps sugar into the oatmeal, and spoons it into his mouth.

Particles of sugar lodge in his teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I post my update schedule on [tumblr](http://themanicmagician.tumblr.com/). You can send me prompts there as well, if you'd like :D


	4. Heat (Part One)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Papyrus is away attending to his duties, Sans falls into his heat.
> 
> The prompt was by [quinn-tessentiallyobssessed](http://themanicmagician.tumblr.com/post/150136425451/reign) over on tumblr!

“You’re sure you don’t want to come with me?” Papyrus asks, packing the last of his supplies in a suitcase and zipping it up.

“I’m good.” Sans says, munching absentmindedly on some chips in bed.

Papyrus is going to Waterfall for a week-long extended stay in Temmie Village. The tems are curious monsters, that kept mostly to themselves during Asgore’s reign. Papyrus sees them as potential allies, but Sans has no desire to trek through muggy marshes to court a bunch of fuzzy weirdoes.

So instead, Sans plans to take a little time for himself, to laze and snack like a total slob while Papyrus isn’t there to disapprove. He’s already started with this bag of chips, the dog helpfully licking up the crumbs he’s spewing on the sheets.

“Try not to wreck the entire castle while I’m gone,” Papyrus warns, but his voice is tinged with mirth.

“No promises.”

Papyrus bends down a little, tilting Sans’ chin up, engaging him in a slow, loving kiss.

They break apart, Papyrus’ fingers caressing the side of Sans’ skull.

“I’ll be back soon.”

Papyrus picks up his suitcase, and with one last glance back, slips out the door.

Sans glances down at the mutt, which is snuffling at his hands in search of more crumbs.

“Looks like it’s just you and me now.”

The hound’s tail thumps excitedly.

~*~

Papyrus scheduled his visit to the Temmie Clan on a week Sans had off from his judicial responsibilities. The kingdom chugs along on its own well enough for the moment, allowing Papyrus to make a trip to an obscure village, while Sans gets to spend his time doing his absolute favorite hobby—absolutely nothing.

Sans and the hound settle into a routine. Sans spends a good portion of the day vegging out on the couch, and when the hellhound starts to look antsy Sans takes the dog for a walk in the garden. The dog is smart enough to know not to piss here; it does that business elsewhere. Instead, the garden is for playing. The dog fetches a tennis ball that it got from god knows where, and Sans tosses it around with his magic, watching with amusement as the dog chases it around in circles. It’s something of a relief to have a week to step back from everything and just…be.

Papyrus had tried to call him the first night, but the audio was choppy, the bad reception making it difficult for them to hear each other. So they’ve settled for texting, but the connection is so poor that about one out of five of the texts Sans sends goes through. He gives up on sending any messages of real importance, instead texting his brother occasional emojis or stories about the dog, just to show he’s still kicking.

His week alone is going fine, until one day Sans wakes up and can instantly tell that something’s decidedly not right. The thick, syrupy feeling of arousal drips through him, his body warm and flushed, his mind fuzzy. He must’ve orgasmed several times in the night, the evidence in his sodden boxers, the sticky puddle of fluid on the sheets.

Sans reaches down, hesitantly touching himself. The press of his hand alone sends waves of pleasure wracking through his body. God, this hasn’t happened in ages. He’s the furthest from prepared that he could possibly be.

He rubs at himself for a moment, and then forces his hand away. Soon, he won’t be able to do anything but masturbate; he needs to act while there’s still a glimmer of sanity left within him.

He heaves himself out of bed, limbs sluggish and slow to respond as he drags himself to the door. The hound must’ve smelled him yesterday and knew something was up, because it’s nowhere to be found now.

The door to the bedroom is shut, as it is every night, but now Sans slides the heavy lock in place. Short of a battering ram, nothing is getting through that door.

Sans rests his sweating skull against the wood, panting softly. He’d never forgive himself if his arousal pushed him into taking a servant or guard into his bed. Papyrus would kill the offending monster without a second thought, but. He would be magnanimous enough to forgive Sans.

Sans’ hand trails against the lock, warring with himself. Papyrus would forgive him. But by betraying him like that, Sans would nurture the seeds of insecurity already planted inside his brother.

So, even though his body urges him otherwise, he makes sure the door is securely locked before staggering back into the bed.

He works his shirt up some, exposing his lower ribs and spine. His hands fumble across the bone, stroking and touching. It’s a pale imitation of Papyrus’ strong, warm touch. It’s not enough, so Sans starts to palm the mound of magic beneath his boxers, his slick dribbling down the insides of his legs.

God, he _needs_ Papyrus. Why did this have to happen now, why couldn’t he have sucked it up and gone with Papyrus—

His cell phone. Sans’ gaze snaps to the nightstand, where his cell phone rests. The haze wrapped around his thoughts clears slightly. He could call Papyrus, who would rush back to take care of him.

His one hand continues to rub at his clothed arousal, while the other strains across the bed to grab the cell phone. He grasps it, but his momentary hope is squashed instantly. The phone’s screen is black and unresponsive; it’s out of charge.

Sans whines, and bucks faster into his hand. He lets the cell phone drop to the floor; he doesn’t have nearly enough coherency any longer to scrounge around the messy bedroom in search of the charger.

Sans peels his boxers off, exposing his dripping need to the open air. He teases a finger around his folds, before slipping it inside.

“Ah, Papyrus,” Sans wheezes, eyes falling shut. All he can do is hope Papyrus returns home soon.

~*~

Papyrus loathes to admit it, even within the privacy of his own mind, but he’s actually having fun here. The temmies live a private life, sequestered in a cave far from the rest of Waterfall’s populace.

Some would call their methods of living crude and primitive, but after days of discussion and observation, Papyrus has discovered their quirky ways of doing things are as, if not more, successful than the usual ways.

The temmies demonstrate their basket-weaving techniques, swift and efficient, and create baskets of better make than the ones he sees in the merchant stalls throughout New Home. Their clan has the unusual trait of limbs that can elongate, which they have honed their fighting skills around. Papyrus watches one of the temmies whip out their arm and snatch a fish from the river, fifteen feet away. He learns that their usage of long limbs has led them to evolve sharp vision; they’re capable of seeing significantly farther than the usual monster. The strategist inside him is delighted at the idea of utilizing temmies in battle, to scout areas as sharp-eyed lookouts.

But perhaps the most useful information he learns comes about when the village elders sit him down to discuss their history. The Temmie Clan stretches back through eons of monster history. Some temmies of note served as advisors to King Asgore back when they were above the surface. Most temmies stay close to home, however, and a great strokes of genius have thus passed by unnoticed. In addition to devising cures for several allergic reactions, the temmies are on the cusp of creating a supplemental medicine for monsters who have fallen down.

“Most monsters dust those who have fallen. Free EXP. But Tem family. Tem protect Tem.” One of the elders explains. Papyrus can understand that.

Unfortunately, their isolation and anti-killing policy leaves them with terribly low LV compared to other monsters. If Papyrus were to bring a temmie into his court, there’s no doubt several of the unrulier monsters would try to pick them off. Papyrus already has his hands full with one low HP monster to worry about, so he reluctantly gives up the thought of bringing one of them back to the castle.

Papyrus parts ways with the Temmie Clan after setting a date for a seconds meeting later in the month. He is led by a temmie though the tall ferns and dark tunnels, back to the main road. The small monster takes a dizzying amount of twists and turns to get there; Papyrus has little hope of replicating the path and making it back to the village on his own, even if he wanted to.

As Papyrus heads to his rendezvous point, where his personal guards are waiting to escort him home, he pulls his phone out of his pocket. The temmies don’t bother with Core-generated electricity, so Papyrus carefully rationed the battery charge to keep the device powered throughout the week. Now that the reception is better, he sends off a quick text to Sans to confirm that he’s on his way back home.

Papyrus frowns, scrolling up to look at their previous messages. His brother’s responses grew increasingly sporadic throughout the week, until he stopped responding altogether.

He _missed_ Sans. He almost pines for their Snowdin days, their simplistic nine to five weekdays. As their relationship strengthened, Sans spent less time at Grillby’s, and Papyrus less time training, the pair of them sitting together to watch mindless television, or indulging in their more carnal desires.

Things are different, now—their time together needs to be planned, fit into a complex schedule. Kingship is what Papyrus had wanted, but it is not without some measure of sacrifice on his part.

The guards are in sight up ahead, and there’s still no response from Sans. He tucks away his phone, irritation building in his soul.

He knows Sans would have enjoyed himself, if he’d given the village a chance. He could have persuaded Sans to accompany him, but instead he accepted his brother’s request to stay home, and no doubt fill their room with crumpled snack bags and unwashed sweaty socks.

Papyrus allowed him this, so the least Sans could’ve done in return was respond to his messages. He resolves to have words with his brother once he reaches the castle.

The journey home is painless, and Papyrus dismisses his guards as he reaches the castle gates.

He is hardly five steps inside the castle walls when a harried-looking servant approaches him.

“King Papyrus, we’re so glad you’ve returned. There’s something wrong with the queen.”

The sharp claws of fear dig into his soul. He’d assumed Sans was being his lazy, irresponsible self when he stopped answering him. Papyrus hadn’t even considered the notion that something could have _happened_ to him.

Papyrus stiffens, and the servant balks under his severe gaze.

“Explain yourself.”

“He shut himself in the bedchamber two days ago, and hasn’t been out since.” She wrings her hands. “We’ve left out food and drink for him, but it has remained untouched.”

Papyrus pushes past her, making his way urgently through the castle, up the stairs that lead to the bedchamber. From his pocket he draws out a key; to ensure their safety, only two have ever been made, and the other is ostensibly on Sans’ person.

Papyrus lets himself inside, shutting the door behind him. Sans has drawn the translucent curtains around the canopy bed, but as Papyrus comes closer he can see his brother’s form shifting on the mattress.

Papyrus rips the curtain to the side.

“Sans, what’s—”

Oh.

… _Oh_.

Sans ruts frantically against the edge of a pillow. He thumbs at his clit as he chews lightly at on the phalanges of his other hand. Soft whimpers of need escape his mouth. He’s stripped naked, and the sheets have been soiled several times over. A sweet, heady musk pours out from him, the scent alone causing magic to pool at Papyrus’ own pelvis.

Papyrus swallows, hard. Sans has entered his heat.

“Pap, Papy,” Sans breathes. He crawls over to the edge of the bed, expression hungry. “I waited for you, so long. Too long.”

Before Papyrus can blink, Sans unbuckles his pants, and tugs down his boxers.

“Sans!” Papyrus yelps out as Sans licks a stripe down his pubic arch, encouraging his magic to take form.

There might as well be stars in his brother’s eyes as he takes Papyrus’ cock in his mouth. On a usual day, Sans moves almost unbearably slow, takes his time. But with his heat coursing through him, Sans is the opposite. He bobs his head up and down Papyrus’ length at a desperate pace. One of his hands comes up to work and squeeze the bottom of Papyrus’ shaft, while the other continues to pleasure himself, thrusting three whole fingers in and out of his slickened pussy.

“Ah, Sans, that’s so good.” Papyrus encourages him. Sans can’t speak, so he hums around Papyrus’ cock, adding to the pleasurable stimulation.

Papyrus grips the back of Sans’ skull, encouraging him to take more and more of him. It’s not too long before Sans’ fast and hard ministrations have Papyrus about to burst. But right as he reaches the edge of climax, Sans draws back, Papyrus’ erection sliding out of his mouth with a soft pop.

Sans rubs his cheek against the tip of Papyrus’ swollen erection.

“Mark me,” Sans begs, breath coming quick and uneven. “Make me yours.”

Sans gives his cock a few more fast pulls and Papyrus cums on Sans’ face. His brother’s tongue flicks out, and he licks around the corners of his mouth, swallowing down some of Papyrus’ release. He gazes up at Papyrus with a glazed, adoring expression.

“I need more. Please?”

“Dear god, Sans.” Heat turns his brother into such a lascivious beast.

Papyrus starts undressing. Sans is eager to help, clumsily unbuttoning his shirt as Papyrus pulls off everything else.

Papyrus climbs into the bed with his lover.

“Let me take care of you.”

“Mmm, yes, Papy,” Sans’ hips buck at the empty air, the low timbre of Papyrus’ voice enough to arouse him.

Papyrus pushes Sans down onto the bed. He presses two fingers to Sans’ mouth. Sans’ teeth part automatically, his tongue sucking on them, getting them nice and wet with his saliva.

“Alright, that’s enough.” Papyrus removes his fingers from Sans’ mouth, bringing them lower, to his twitching hips. Sans hardly needs preparation, slick and open from days of using his own hands.

Papyrus plunges his fingers inside, and Sans’ hips jerk up in response. His fingers curl inside his walls. Sans throws his head back, moaning with wanton abandon.

“Oh, Papy, _more_.” Sans pleads. He grasps Papyrus’ wrist in a trembling grip, trying to push him in harder, deeper. Papyrus rubs his fingers inside him, and it doesn’t take long for Sans to orgasm, his release squirting out around Papyrus’ fingers.

Sans’ recovery period is a matter of minutes, and Papyrus moves on to the next stage of his plan. When both partners are not in a simultaneous heat, the experience can be difficult and draining for the one not affected. As soon as Papyrus gives in, slips his cock inside Sans, his lover won’t let him stop until the heat is satisfied.

Papyrus removes his fingers from Sans’ folds, and keeps his brother’s gaze as he licks off his cum with slow, deliberate swipes of his tongue.

Papyrus chuckles as the simple action has Sans squirming. He leans forward, overtop of Sans, pinning him in place with his hands on either side of his brother’s shoulders.

“Look at yourself, Sans.” Papyrus purrs. “You’ve become such a little slut.”

Sans’ face colors, both from embarrassment and arousal.

“Sh-Shut up.”

“Admit it, Sans.” Papyrus shifts, pressing his knee to Sans’ groin. His brother rocks against him, generating a gentle friction.

“Stop p-playing around,” Sans gasps.

Papyrus presses his mouth to Sans’ neck, reveling in the full body shudder that runs through him at Papyrus’ warm breath blowing on his vertebrae.

“What did you imagine me doing to you, those days I was gone?”

Sans whines; his rutting against Papyrus’ leg isn’t enough to fully satisfy him. Papyrus is almost painfully aroused himself, but he denies them both what they want for the moment in favor of tormenting Sans.

“Describe it for me.”

“I—I pictured, I, uh, y-you,” Sans grasps for a scrap of higher brain function.

“Go on.” Papyrus nuzzles into Sans’ neck.

“You, c-coming home, and, and,” Sans’ fists clench and unclench in the sheets. “You push me down, and f-fuck me, faster and faster, filling me _up_ —”

The mental image alone overwhelms him, and Sans’ eyes flutter as he rolls his hips, coming again.

“My my, what’s this?” Papyrus pulls his knee away, to watch the juices trickle out of him. “Cuming from just the thought of me inside you. And yet you claim you’re not a slut.”

“S-Screw you.” Sans mutters, hiding his face in the crook of his arm.

Papyrus ducks his head lower, bringing his attention back to Sans’ pelvis. He caresses the outer edges of bone, coming close to his pussy but then stopping just shy of it. Sans’ breath quickens as minutes pass without Papyrus continuing any further than the feather-light touches.

“Stop f-fucking around!” Sans whimpers. “Just touch me already!”

“But Sans, I _am_ touching you.”

Papyrus continues to stoke the sensitive bones of his pelvis with one hand, and the other comes up to Sans’ spine, blunted nails scraping lightly against the bone.

Sans wriggles at the pleasure, but lets out an agitated sigh.

“Papy, come _on_ already. I—I want you inside me, _please_.”

“All in due time, Sans.”

Sans’ hips jolt as Papyrus leans in, tongue lapping at his swollen clit. He drags his nails harshly down Sans’ spine, his other hand toying with his coccyx.

“Mmnf, yes, fuck yes! Right—ah—right there, yes—”

Sans cums once again from all the stimulation, and Papyrus swallows it down.

Sans sags back against the bed, breathing hard, face beautifully flushed. Papyrus stokes Sans’ femur idly, waiting for him to recover. He licks at the cum around his teeth. His unattended erection throbs, precum soaking the tip.

He misses the devious expression that flashes across Sans’ face.

Papyrus stops short as his soul is captured with blue magic. Part of him is impressed Sans can summon this magic this complex considering the state he’s in. The other part of him is filled with the panicked realization that he’s no longer the one in control.

“Oomph!”

Sans uses his magic to toss Papyrus onto the bed beside him. He releases his hold on Papyrus’ soul as he climbs on top of him, lining himself up.

“No more games.” Sans growls, and slams himself deep down onto Papyrus’ cock.

“Oh, f-fuck,” Papyrus stutters out. Sans is warm and wet, wrapping around him perfectly.

“Heh. S-See, Pap, isn’t this so m-much better?”

They get into a steady rhythm, Papyrus canting his hips up as Sans thrusts down, taking his entire length. Sans’ tongue lolls out of his mouth, drool dripping down his chin, a total slave to pleasure.

“ _Hng_ , Sans, I’m close—”

“Fill me up, Papy, _please_ —”

Papyrus’ orgasm rolls over him, and he cums buried inside Sans. The sensation of Papyrus’ seed spilling out inside him has Sans cuming as well, his walls tightening around Papyrus, milking his cock for every last drop.

Papyrus’ erection is softening, but Sans continues to slowly rock against him.

“When did your heat start?” Papyrus asks, a bit breathless. Sans’ increasing rhythm is coaxing him back into hardness.

“Papy, I don’t even know what day it is.” Sans thrusts down on him hard, drawing a sharp moan from the both of them. “All I know is I want to keep fucking until I pass out.”

But Sans meets his eyes. The series of successive orgasms has given him a scrap of rationality back, taken a bit of the edge off. His look says that if Papyrus really wants him to stop, he will. He’ll let Papyrus go and deal with the remainder of the heat himself.

Papyrus answers that look by gripping Sans’ hips, urging him to go faster.

There’s challenge in the sharp-toothed smirk he flashes up at Sans.

“Well? What are you dawdling for?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I post my update schedule on [tumblr](http://themanicmagician.tumblr.com/).


	5. Heat (Part Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Papyrus tries to repress his heat, but finds it easier said then done. Sans is hardly helping.
> 
> This is a combination of these prompts [here](http://themanicmagician.tumblr.com/post/150056007121/do-monsters-have-heats-in-reign-cuz-one-of-the) and [here](http://themanicmagician.tumblr.com/post/150103869511/if-you-wrote-some-heat-chapter-how-the-heater).

Papyrus’ eyes crack open. He’s lying on his side, his arm slung over Sans’ shoulder. His brother’s mouth is slack in sleep, drool seeping onto his pillow. How lovely.

Papyrus disentangles from Sans, hissing lowly as the movement awakens numerous aches in the lower half of his body. He lost track of how many times he and Sans were both brought to orgasm, his brother’s tenacity keeping them up well into the early hours of the night.

He glances down at his brother, thinking. Sans’ last heat had happened years ago, when they first moved into Snowdin. Their house, though not without its flaws, was above average size, and warm enough considering the location. Papyrus had requested and obtained an advance on his wages, and used most of the gold to purchase food and other supplies. For those few short weeks, they had achieved stability and relative safety.

One day, he went to awaken Sans for their sentry shift, to find his brother’s door locked. He’d pressed his skull to the door, heard his brother gasping and moaning on the other side.

Sans hadn’t shared his heat with him, but that insufferable bartender had seemed rather smug for weeks after. Papyrus never knew for sure what, if anything, had transpired between them. It’s entirely possible nothing happened at all, and Grillby had been trying to toy with him.

But regardless, that is in the past. Sans is here now, by his side. He feels safe and secure here, and asked Papyrus to help him through his heat.

Papyrus leans over, nudging Sans.

Rousing, Sans bats away the hand that prods at his side.

“Five more minutes, boss.” His voice is raspy, hoarse from literal days spent moaning for his lover.

“Not a chance,” Papyrus insists. “The sheets are positively filthy.”

Unwilling to wallow in the mixture of sweat and other bodily fluids for a moment longer, Papyrus climbs out of the bed, stretching his aching limbs.

He hefts Sans up into his arms; if Papyrus doesn’t carry him, he’s liable to fall right back asleep again.

“Ah, shit.” Sans mutters, as the jostling movement exacerbates his own soreness.

Papyrus stills. “Are you alright?”

“’m fine. Just not used to that much activity, heh.”

Papyrus snorts. He nudges open the bathroom door with his foot, and transfers all of Sans’ weight to one arm so he can run the bathwater.

The tub, built to fit both Asgore and Toriel, is comically large for the two of them. It’s more of a big Jacuzzi than a bathtub. Papyrus had a simple, smaller shower installed when they first moved in, but this is one of the rare instances in which he opts for the tub instead.

Papyrus turns another tap, and a soap with a rosy smell floods out, churning and mixing with the water.

When the tub is filled to his satisfaction, Papyrus turns off the taps, dipping a finger in the water to gauge the temperature. Papyrus typically prefers to take scalding hot showers, but the extreme heat would be murder on their sensitive bones. So he makes sure to keep the temperature lower than usual, nearly lukewarm.

He sets Sans down inside the tub. His brother lets out a pleased moan as the warmth of the water surrounds him. Papyrus climbs in after him, and grabs two loofahs resting on the rim of the tub. He tosses one over to Sans, and it bounces lightly off of his head.

“Owch,” Sans gripes.

“Make sure to clean yourself properly.”

Papyrus is already lathering up his own sponge. But Sans just bats his loofah around in the water, absentmindedly scooping up some of the bubbles and stacking them on top of it.

“I mean it, Sans.”

“Yeah yeah, I heard ya, boss.”

Papyrus snickers.

“What’s so funny?” Sans asks, warily.

“Back to calling me “boss” now, are you?” Papyrus leans over him. “What happened to “Papy”?”

Sans’ face goes red. He makes a half-hearted attempt to shove Papyrus away.

“Shut up.” He sinks down in the bathwater, trying to hide his face in the bubbly foam. He picks up the loofah, and brushes it lightly against his bones.

Papyrus shifts closer towards him, pulling Sans into his lap, back flush against his chest.

“Boss?” Sans cranes his head, staring up at Papyrus questioningly.

“You’ll never get yourself clean with such a sloppy technique.”

Papyrus scrubs Sans down in earnest. Dirt and grime flake away in addition to the layers of bodily fluids. Sans sighs with contentment as Papyrus thoroughly cleans both Sans’ limbs and his own. The layer of bubbles slowly thins out as time trickles by.

“Don’t fall asleep.” Sans is limp and pliant against him, letting Papyrus do all the work, as usual.

“I’m not. Just restin’ my eyes.”

Sans startles, eyes snapping open as Papyrus presses the sponge to the curve of his iliac crest.

“I can’t _not_ clean the area.” Papyrus says. Of all the places on Sans’ body, his pelvis needs the most attention.

“I know, it’s just…”

Papyrus swipes the loofah across his pelvis. Sans stifles a moan with his hand; Papyrus can practically feel the heat of his blush.

“Can’t believe I’m getting worked up over a fucking sponge.” Sans mutters.

Papyrus laughs lowly, tugging the loofah through his pelvic cavity, to brush against his coccyx. Sans squirms in his grip.

“I’m almost finished,” Papyrus promises, pushing the sponge around every dip and nook of his pelvis, until any residue of their activities has been thoroughly removed.

Sans twists around in Papyrus’ hold to meet his gaze, red tongue slip out between serrated teeth. Papyrus answers his unasked question by meeting him in a kiss. In a direct parallel to their frantic, greedy pace the night before, the kiss is gentle, but just as loving.

Papyrus pulls away before it can escalate any further; they’d come into the bathroom to get _clean_ , after all.

He finishes sponging down the both of them, and pulls the plug at the bottom of the tub, water and soap swirling down the drain. Papyrus grabs two fluffy white towels, tossing one to Sans, and they both dry themselves off.

They have to pick their way across the bedroom floor to reach the closet. Papyrus hadn’t had the chance earlier to really take in the mess Sans made. Crumpled snack bags are scattered about, their crumbs spilling out onto the carpet. Sans’ outfits are flung haphazardly here and there across the room. The wastebasket is overflowing with balled-up papers, scientific designs that Sans must’ve gotten frustrated with. All in all, a total mess.

“I was gonna clean it,” Sans says, defensive, reading the disgust plain on Papyrus’ face. “Really. But then, well. You know.”

“What is it that compels you to generate so much garbage?” Papyrus wonders. Sans shrugs.

They dress for the day, in softer, more comfortable outfits than usual.

“Well, you’re not weaseling your way out of cleaning it,” Papyrus declares, as he straightens the hems of his turtleneck.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Papyrus is a mite peckish, but Sans is undoubtedly hungry, so once they’ve dressed, they make their way down to the dining room. On the way, Papyrus catches the attention of the first maid he encounters, and instructs her to strip the bedsheets of the royal chamber. Even Sans has the decency to blush at what awaits the hapless maid when she enters the room.

Their hot bath has eased most of their soreness away, but neither are fully recovered yet. Papyrus takes his seat at the head of the table with care, and Sans settles gingerly into his own chair to his right. The cooks are quick to whip up a veritable brunch for them.

The long days of his heat have left Sans ravenous; the servants have hardly finished setting the plates of food on the table before he is digging into his meal with gusto.

Summoned by the scent of food, the hellhound trots in. It perks up at the sight of its returned master, and bolts over, licking excitedly at Papyrus’ hand. He greets it with a few pats on the head.

Upon seeing the hound, one of the servants disappears into the kitchen to fetch its usual meal. The hound curls at Papyrus’ feet as it feasts.

As Papyrus starts to eat himself, he’s pleased to see Sans continuing to eat so well. Getting his brother to eat when he’s not in the mood is an impossible uphill battle, and it happens far too frequently for his comfort. Sans’ magic is strong, but his body is frail; he needs all the extra strength he can get.

After a leisurely meal, Papyrus and Sans part ways for the moment. There’s still time enough in the day to get some work completed. For Sans, that means picking up the mess he made of the bedroom. For Papyrus, that means a trip to the library.

The castle library is massive. Rows upon rows of bookshelves fill the room, each with stacks of leather-bound tomes on every subject imaginable. Papyrus had been raised on propagandist schooling, taught a diluted and twisted version of history. But some of the books housed here date back centuries; so many are first editions, diaries, first-hand accounts. Papyrus has made it a habit to come here and study from those long gone, to learn from their mistakes.

Papyrus takes a seat at one of the long reading tables. He’d left several books out the last time he was here. He picks one from the pile; a bulky text on Waterfall horticulture. As dry as a text can be, but there’s no telling when such mundane facts might come in handy. He spent his childhood and adolescence learning how to be a warrior, but now he must be a king.

Papyrus picks up his reading glasses. They’ve been designed with his lack of physical ears in mind, gummy magic keeping them stuck snug to his skull. He turns the book open to his bookmarked page, and begins to read.

He’s just begun a new chapter exploring theories on echo flowers when he’s suddenly uncomfortable, warmth prickling across his bones. He rolls up the sleeves of his turtleneck, which is now sweltering.

“Fuck,” He swears, noticing the telltale glow brightening beneath his pants.

Sans’ heat must have triggered his own. Papyrus grips his knees tightly, forcing his breath to remain level.

He doesn’t have _time_ for this. Sans’ heat coincided quite fortuitously with their week-long break. But now the brief respite is at an end, and he needs to work. He has no time to indulge in his carnal desires.

Papyrus can’t tell Sans. His lazy brother will encourage him to satisfy the heat instead of fulfilling his responsibilities. If Sans knew about this, he wouldn’t let Papyrus leave the bed until his heat was thoroughly taken care of, even though that could take _days_.

No, it’s much better for Papyrus to handle this all himself. He casts a furtive glance around the library. Guards are posted outside the door, but he’s alone in the expansive room. Emboldened by his privacy, Papyrus shakily unzips his pants, pulling his growing erection into the open air.

He bends the upper half of his body over the desk, gripping the wooden surface for support as his other hand strokes in a steady rhythm. Precum slickens his hand. His heat has him rock hard in a matter of minutes.

“ _Fuck_ ,” He pants, as he gets close to the edge. His eye sockets squeeze shut, and he pictures Sans kneeling before him, swirling his tongue around Papyrus’ cock, then drawing back to moan out his name, begging to be fucked by _Papy_.

Papyrus climaxes with a stifled groan.

He wipes off his hand on a tissue, before stooping down to clean off the mess he made on the carpet before it sets. The heat ebbs for the moment, his body settling down again. He discards the evidence of his momentary weakness, and returns to his reading. He’ll get through this.

~*~

Sans smothers a yawn with the back of his hand as the servant helps him into his outfit for the day.

“How are you this morning, my queen?” The servant’s voice is cheery in spite of the early hour.

“Good enough. How’s…Todd?”

They’ve lived in the castle long enough now that he’s come to recognize most of the servants. Sans used to be incredibly uncomfortable about being dressed by another, and several of the maids, sensing his anxiety, would fill the moment with idle chatter about their lives. Sans struggles to recall this particular servant’s name—Maria, maybe?—but he does remember that she has a kid in New Home.

“Oh, just splendid!” She enthuses. “His magic scores placed him in the top fifteen of his class. With a bit more practice, he might even be considered by the guard.”

“The royal guard, huh?”

Being in the guard used to have a bit more weight to it, back when Undyne was still around. Papyrus has been making strides to rebuild it to its former glory, but like most everything, progress comes at a snail’s pace.

Both jump as the door to the dressing room suddenly slams open. Papyrus steps inside, a dark aura about him.

“Jesus, boss. Where’s the fire?”

Sans tries for levity, to put his brother at ease. He can’t think of anything that would have Papyrus so wound up.

“Leave.” Papyrus commands coldly, glaring down at the servant. She pales, and makes a hasty departure.

“What did you do that for?” Sans gestures as he speaks, and the straps of the dress slip down his arms. “She didn’t finish.”

Papyrus says nothing, staring through him, almost dazed.

“Boss?”

Sans steps down off the stool, coming over to touch Papyrus’ arm. His brother flinches, Sans’ touch seeming to shock him back into awareness.

“Turn around.” Papyrus whispers out.

Sans does so. After a moment, Papyrus’ hands come up, to finish the work the servant left incomplete. Sans can feel Papyrus’ hands tremble as he laces up the dress.

“Are you feeling okay?” Sans asks.

“Yes,” Papyrus’ voice is hoarse, strained. He clears his throat, and when he speaks again, it is with his usual strength. “I’m fine.”

Sans’ crown rests on a nearby chair. Papyrus picks it up, and lowers it onto Sans’ skull. He traces the ornately-carved crown with his hand, phalanges circling the gems encrusted on the golden metal.

“My queen.” Sans shudders as Papyrus’ voice drops low, husky.

Papyrus takes his arm, pressing him rather close. Sans marvels over his odd behavior as they make their way through the castle. Maybe Papyrus is still feeling guilt over being absent for the onset of Sans’ heat. He couldn’t have known it was coming, but it’s certainly possible that Papyrus is blaming himself for it nonetheless. He’ll need to sit down with Papyrus and assure him he’d done nothing wrong, and that Sans is fine now; he doesn’t need to worry so much, doesn’t need to work himself up into such a state.

But first they have to get through the day.

Papyrus and Sans enter the throne room. Toriel’s throne has been brought out of storage to sit beside Asgore’s. The thrones are massive, but Papyrus wouldn’t even consider swapping them out for ones more tailored to their height. Asgore’s black throne has become a symbol of the crown almost as much as the angel’s sigil. To compensate, Papyrus wears tall boots, and a sweeping cape that adds bulk to his frame.

They settle into their thrones. Papyrus picks up the red trident of the king, laying it across his lap, holding it loosely with one hand. Sans frowns as he notices Papyrus’ leg bouncing restlessly.

Papyrus gestures to the guards by the front double doors. One of the guards disappears into the hall, and returns with the first citizen of the day, a timid bunny monster.

Issues of major importance, such as construction and trade agreements, are handled in conference rooms filled with politicians and so-called experts on whatever the issue at hand is. But Papyrus also holds occasional sessions where the common folk can come to him with their individual complaints or requests.

The bunny monster kneels before them, and humbly requests aid for an orphanage. Sans almost laughs aloud at the exorbitantly high amount of funds requested.

But Papyrus seems to feel differently.

“So it shall be.”

The bunny looks up at the king, eyes wide with surprise. She’d expected to barter, not immediately get what she asked for.

Not questioning her good fortune, the bunny monster darts from the room before Papyrus can change his mind. A guard escorts her to a side room, to fill out forms and give her the appropriate amount of gold.

Sans gapes at Papyrus. What happened to his penny-pinching brother, who scrimps and saves down to the last coin?

“You know there’s no way that’s all going to the kids, right?”

Papyrus grunts, and waves the next monster in.

Sans watches, quietly mystified, as Papyrus bulldozes on with this new method of his. Monsters either get everything requested, or are flatly denied. There’s no middle ground, no haggling. It’s as if Papyrus is trying to get through the process as quickly as possible, but they don’t have anything else scheduled for the day. So what’s his hurry?

“Denied,” Papyrus says, to the genuflecting lizard monster at his feet. She requested additional food rations for her and her family, but it’s clear that she and her husband squandered what little they’d had. The king intended to correct injustices with these meetings, not award stupidity.

But the lizard doesn’t take no for an answer.

“Please, I beg you to reconsider!”

Guards approach to forcibly remove her, when she surges forwards, to kiss at Sans’ feet. He draws back.

“I beg you my queen, please save my babies—”

The monster’s soul is turned blue, and Papyrus rips her away from Sans, slamming her down hard on the floor. Papyrus stabs his trident down into the ground, two of the prongs on either side of the monster’s neck, mere centimeters away from skewering her.

“How _dare_ you presume to touch what isn’t yours.” Papyrus snarls.

Sans jumps up, alarmed at the rush of killer intent.

“Whoa, Papyrus, it’s alright—”

Papyrus barrels on. “Maybe I should slice off those roving hands of yours, just to be sure.”

He summons a sharpened bone attack, and the lizard thrashes, frantically grasping at the trident, trying and failing to tug it free from the ground.

“No, please! I’m sorry, my king, I’m so sorry,” She wails, soiling herself.

“Papyrus, _stop_!”

Sans puts himself between the two of them, forcing Papyrus to look at him.

“This isn’t like you.”

The wildness in Papyrus’ eyes slowly ebbs. He dissipates his magic, and pulls the trident free. The lizard cringes away from him, expecting further punishment, but none comes. The guards, who had hesitated on the periphery when Papyrus went on the attack, step forward now, pulling the trembling monster out of the room before she really gets dusted.

Sans reaches out towards Papyrus, but his lover backs away from him, and sets the trident to rest against the side of his throne.

“Papyrus?”

“I have things to attend to. Don’t wait up for me tonight.” Papyrus’ tone is clipped.

Before Sans can get a word in edgewise, Papyrus storms off to elsewhere in the castle. The guards step outside, to inform the remaining citizens that the session has drawn to a close. Alone, Sans is left to wonder what the hell just happened.

~*~

Sans is awoken in the middle of the night. He isn’t sure by what, but then he feels the mattress dipping; Papyrus must have finally cooled down and come to join him in bed.

Sans is curled on his side, facing the nightstand. He’s about to roll over and engage his lover in conversation when he hears Papyrus’ breath hitch, and a pleasant, musky scent drifts over. Sans freezes.

“Sans,” Papyrus sighs, quietly.

Sans hears fabric shift, and then the sound of a hand on something distinctly wet. Papyrus’ breathing picks up, and he even lets slip a thready moan.

Oh, _fuck_. Sans’ face heats up. Papyrus is jerking off right next to him.

The pheromones pouring off Papyrus in waves make it painfully clear what’s going on. Sans could smack himself for being such an absolute moron for not realizing it sooner. Papyrus has gone into his own heat, in response to Sans’. But for some dumb reason that only Papyrus could rationalize, he was trying to suppress it. It certainly explains Papyrus’ oddly possessive behavior over the past few days.

Sans’ pelvis tingles with his own sparking arousal, in response to the obscene sounds of Papyrus’ masturbation. Papyrus has never gone into heat before, at least not to Sans’ knowledge. His dumbass lover probably thought he could ignore his heat if he just tried hard enough. But it’s a biological, innate need that needs to be fulfilled.

He should pretend to wake up, and attend to Papyrus’ obvious need.

…Or should he?

Papyrus had been such a miserable tease during Sans’ heat; the vengeful side of him declares that Papyrus deserves the same treatment.

Papyrus chokes off a too-loud moan. Sans can feel his eyes boring into his back, trying to gauge his alertness. Sans continues to feign sleep convincingly enough, so Papyrus begins to stroke himself once more.

“Hah…mmm…Sans….” Papyrus whimpers into his pillow.

It takes all of Sans’ resolve to ignore him. The bed creaks as Papyrus rocks on it, until finally he orgasms, some flecks of his fluid even hitting the small of Sans’ back.

Papyrus’ breathing slows, and the musk of his heat recedes some, pulled back and repressed by Papyrus’ ironclad will. It’d be admirable if it wasn’t so foolhardy.

There’s more swishing of fabric, and then a gentle swipe of a cloth against Sans’ back, removing any trace of evidence.

With the mess taken care of, Papyrus settles in to actually sleep. He doesn’t pull Sans close to his chest as he normally does, and Sans finds himself missing his warm, comforting hold. His brother must be wary of getting too close and tipping Sans off about his little problem.

Although Papyrus soon drops off into slumber, Sans is restless, head abuzz with plans for his petty revenge.

In a matter of hours, Papyrus is up again. Sans opens his eyes a crack, and watches his brother get dressed and prepared for the day before slipping out of the room.

After about an hour later, Sans rolls out of bed to put his plan into action. He digs into the very back of their closet, where their old Snowdin outfits are stashed.

Sans slips into a ratty pair of shorts, and a loose tank top that exposes far too much of his ribs to be considered decent. Papyrus has kept him in long, ankle-length gowns since their royal upgrade. He’ll be completely blindsided by Sans’ outfit, even though he wore much of the same sort back in Snowdin.

Sans checks himself over in front of a full length mirror, and grins with satisfaction.

He’s ready. Now all that’s left is to locate Papyrus.

~*~

Sans ultimately finds him in the library. He looks like he’s earnestly trying to read, but the flush to his face indicates that his heat has been something of a hindrance.

“Morning, boss.” Sans announces his presence, making his way over to Papyrus.

“Sans, I don’t have time for…” Papyrus’ words catch in his throat as he takes in Sans’ outfit. “What are you _wearing_?”

“Oh, this?” Sans picks at one of the straps of the tank top. “It was kind of warm this morning, don’t you think?”

Papyrus is shaking with want, but jerks his gaze away to stare down at whatever musty old journal he was reading.

“I have work to do.”

“Come on, boss.” Sans cajoles. “You don’t have to hole up in here. Let’s go grab breakfast or something.”

Sans stretches, and his shirt lifts up, baring the lower half of his spine.

He smirks as Papyrus’ control finally snaps. He pins Sans against the bookshelf, capturing Sans’ mouth in a hungry kiss. His hands rove Sans’ body, stroking every inch of bone he can get his hands on.

His reading glasses are knocked askew, and Sans helpfully plucks them off, tossing them out of the way.

“Mm, Pap,” Sans keens as Papyrus grinds their pelvis’ together. His plans to tease Papyrus had been a bit more elaborate than just his revealing clothing, but thoughts of anything else besides the skeleton in front of him soon evaporate in his mind.

Sans’ hands grip the shelves for support as Papyrus’ swollen erection presses against him. His own magic jumps to respond, and he forms an entrance for Papyrus, which rapidly grows wet with want.

“S-Shit. Shouldn’t we take this somewhere more, uh, private?”

One of the straps of his tank top has slipped to the side, exposing his collarbone.

Papyrus bites down on the slender bone, marking him. Sans flinches as pain and pleasure mingle together in his body.

“Mine,” Papyrus growls, teeth red with marrow.

He reaches down, yanking Sans’ shorts off to tangle by his ankles. Sans hadn’t bothered with underwear, knowing where his teasing would lead.

“Augh!” Sans tries to stifle his cries. Papyrus is rougher than usual as he enters him, and with little preparation. Still, there’s something so satisfying in watching Papyrus devolve into something less than perfect and controlled, succumbing to his animalistic desires.

Papyrus plunges into him. His pace is slow, but he thrusts deeply, all the way to the hilt, stretching Sans’ walls to the limit.

Sans’ hands, slick with sweat, lose their grasp on the shelves. Papyrus reaches forward and squeezes his wrists in a powerful grip, keeping them pinned up.

Through his haze of pleasure, Sans is struck by the sight of Papyrus’ soul. It’s still hidden beneath his shirt, behind his ribcage, but it shines bright enough that Sans can still see the crimson glow. His own soul pulses madly in his chest, longing to join and meld with his lover’s.

“Pah—Pap, please.” It’s hard for him to articulate his need, and he tries to squirm up to reach Papyrus. His brother somehow understands, and crushes their chests together. Their souls strain, close but not yet touching.

Papyrus’ pace grows erratic, picking up speed as he builds closer to his climax.

Papyrus presses his tongue to Sans’ teeth, requesting entrance. Sans parts his mouth, their tongues tangling together.

Sans clamps tight around Papyrus, as he’s brought to orgasm. Sans gives a muffled moan as Papyrus stops thrusting and impales him, his cum shooting into Sans in a hot gush of magic.

Papyrus pulls out, but his cock is still stiff, his heat not even close to being fulfilled yet.

Papyrus grips Sans by his collar, tugging him to the floor. Sans lets himself be manhandled, limbs like jelly as Papyrus positions him on all fours, like a dog.

Papyrus enters him again, displacing some of his spent seed as he does. Most of it remains inside Sans, swilling around.

“Fuck _yes_ ,” Sans pants.

Papyrus only grunts and growls, well past the point of being able to form words. Papyrus’ fingers dig and scrape at Sans’ back, leaving faint marks on the bone.

Their pelvis’ click and knock together as Papyrus thrusts into him relentlessly. Sans’ face is pressed against the books, his saliva dripping down and puddling onto the shelf.

Papyrus’s hands wander down to grip at Sans’ pelvis, pushing himself deep inside Sans as his second orgasm rips through him.

“Oh, oh my god,” Sans feels so goddamn _full_ , stuffed with his lover’s release. His body has started to distend around all of the liquid stopped up inside of it. He squirms. “Papy, please.”

Papyrus pulls out. Sans sighs with relief, spreading his legs wide as Papyrus’ seed spills out of him in a steady stream.

Papyrus’ limbs rattle with lust. He’s still very much in the throes of his heat, but Sans is physically spent for the moment. It’s time to try something else.

Sans pushes himself upright, cum still leaking out of his pussy. He reaches under Papyrus’ shirt, freeing his soul from its prison. It’s slick, dripping with excess magic. Sans can feel the faint throb of Papyrus’ desire, the physical contact with his soul enough to broadcast his emotions.

Sans’ tongue slurps at the soul. Papyrus shudders, and Sans knows he’s feeling every swipe of his tongue across his whole body.

Sans’ gaze goes half-lidded as Papyrus wraps a hand around his erection, pumping in time with Sans’ ministrations.

He dips Papyrus’ soul into his mouth, suckling up the sweet magic, tongue pushing against the squishy texture of his soul.

Papyrus’ gaze never strays from Sans, and he can feel the heat and intensity of his desire.

But then Sans pulls back, removes the soul from his mouth. Papyrus emits a frustrated groan.

“You see how good this is now, don’t you, Papyrus?” Sans massages his lover’s soul with slow circles, enough to keep Papyrus excited, but not enough to satisfy. “I just want to make you feel good, so you tell me when this happens again, alright?”

Papyrus moans brokenly as Sans’ thumb presses hard into his soul.

“I mean it, Pap. Do you understand me?”

Papyrus nods desperately.

“Good.”

Sans wedges Papyrus’ soul between his teeth and bites down.

Papyrus’ hips snap forward, his release shooting out. Magic bursts from his soul as well, and Sans swallows it down.

Limbs weak, Papyrus pitches forward. Sans catches him, cradling him close.

Papyrus’ soul is cooling rapidly, and Sans returns it to his chest, where it belongs.

They hold each other close, for the moment sated and content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I post my update schedule on [tumblr](http://themanicmagician.tumblr.com/).


	6. Recovery and Revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The direct aftermath of what takes place in chapter one, as requested by 0netype. 
> 
> Sans helps Papyrus through his recovery, and together they crush the rebellion that nearly tore them apart.

Sans remains curled up against Papyrus as he fills him in on what he missed. It’s a rare thing for them to be in a prolonged cuddly mood, but they’re both still a little spooked. Royal life has its own host of problems, but their physical safety isn’t as much of an issue. They have authority, soldiers—it should’ve been enough. But the rebels’ attack serves as a cold reminder that even with their royal positions, they need to keep on guard. A group of clear, organized monsters can prove deadly as one human if given the opportunity.

Sans concludes his report. He’s content to cling to his lover for the moment, but Papyrus has another idea in mind. He disentangles from Sans, and swings his legs over the side of the bed.

“You should take it easy,” Sans warns. There’s a tinge of irritation in his tone. Would it kill Papyrus to sit still for a minute?

“I’ve been gone too long as it is. I need to quell unrest within the guard, at the very least.”

Papyrus searches the room for his boots, and finds them in a corner Sans had haphazardly tossed them over a week ago. He picks them up, but as he straightens his face drains of color.

Papyrus wavers, and Sans is across the room, beside him in an instant. The blanket that’d been wrapped around him drops to the mattress.

Sans tries to steady Papyrus to help him stand upright again, and they’re both surprised when instead Papyrus sags heavily against him.

“Shit, Paps.” Sans grunts. He half-carries, half-drags Papyrus back over to the bed and lays him on it.

Papyrus’ chest is heaving with exertion. Sweat beads on his skull. What’s most alarming is the unsteady rattling of his bones. Papyrus looks…bad. Really bad.

Sans nearly stumbles over his own feet on his way over to the door. He throws it open, and shouts to the guards standing further down the hall.

“Get a healer up here now!”

“Right away, my queen.” One of them responds, his armor clanking as he heads down the stairs.

Sans returns his attention to Papyrus, who is already trying to leave the bed again.

“Damn it, just stay there.” Sans pushes him back down so he’s flat on his back again.

Papyrus glowers at him.

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah, and I’m a 1000 HP monster.”

Despite Papyrus’ insistence he’s fine, he lets Sans fuss over him without protest. Sans fills another cup with water and helps Papyrus take slow, steady sips.

“What do you think is worse—staying in bed for one more day, or having your guard see you faint in front of ‘em?”

Papyrus knows he’s right, but doesn’t utter a verbal agreement.

In a matter of minutes there’s commotion at the door as the Royal Healer—Freya, he recalls—puffs over to them. She’s rather plump for a wolf monster, with slate-grey fur. Behind her trails the guard that fetched her, and well as the hellhound. The guard closes the door to give them privacy, and ostensibly returns to his post. The dog pads over to Sans, whining, and bumps its muzzle against his hand. Sans gives the animal a few pats to settle it down.

Freya’s paw glows green with magic as she presses it to Papyrus’ skull. She stays quiet for too long, with a frown on her face.

“You said he’d be fine when he woke up.” Sans snaps.

“I said he’d be out of danger of falling down, not that he should start exerting himself right away.” She remembers who she’s talking to, and tacks on an apologetic “My queen.”

Papyrus’ rattling bones settle again as Freya feeds healing magic into him.

“All monsters require magic to live, but skeleton monsters are one of the unique types that is physically bound together by magic.” Freya addresses her king directly, meeting his eyes. “While you were unconscious, the bulk of your magic went to keeping you all connected. But now you’re awake, and the scant magic you’ve regenerated is being diverted to movement, funneled into your emotions—and my king, you simply can’t afford to spread yourself thin.”

“How long am I supposed to lay around like a fucking invalid?” Papyrus growls.

“A case of magical depletion this severe is unprecedented. My best estimate is two weeks to recovery. Perhaps three. And that’s being optimistic, my king.”

Freya’s fur is matting with sweat; she must be sharing a sizable chunk of magic to keep Papyrus stable.

“I cannot emphasize enough how important it is to not overexert yourself. Right now you require time, and hearty meals.”

The steady stream of magic ebbs, and she removes her paw. Sans eyes her, but she doesn’t look in danger of collapsing as Papyrus did. Just drained.

“I’ll speak to the cooks and have something set up immediately.”

Once she leaves, Sans tries to placate his brother.

“There, you see? Three weeks isn’t too terrible.”

“I can’t just… _lay_ here, doing nothing. That might come easy to a lazy slob like you, but not to me,” Papyrus snaps.

Sans rolls his eyes. This is going to be a long three weeks.

~*~

This is one of the rare instances that Sans is glad to see the Lab up ahead. He would’ve been here over an hour ago, but Papyrus had insisted he take a pair of guards with him whenever he left the castle; thus, teleportation was out of the question. The masterminds of the rebellion are still at large, so it’s understandable that Papyrus would want some extra muscle around. Understandable, but still a pain in the ass. His shirt is clinging to his ribs, soaked with sweat. He hates any form of exercise that doesn’t involve a mattress. Or a wall.

Speaking of pains in his ass, Papyrus has been goddamn insufferable. He keeps lying, telling Sans that he’s recovered, when one step out of bed leaves him breathless and shaking. Sans even returned one night to find him practicing magic. The small, brittle bones he summoned shattered in an instant. Papyrus knows better, knows that pulling stunts will just keep him laid up longer. But still he insists on challenging Sans and the Royal Healer. Sans had only agreed to take bodyguards with him on the stipulation that two additional guards kept their eyes on Papyrus the entire time, to ensure that he wouldn’t try anything while Sans was out.

He lets out a relieved sigh as they step inside the air-conditioned building. A secretary greets them, and directs them to the lower level; the Royal Scientist is waiting for them in his office. Sans waves away the secretary’s offer to guide him; he’s more than familiar with the layout of the Lab. Once downstairs, the guards follow him through the maze of corridors. It’s still jarring to see low level scientists puttering about. Under Alphys’ control it had been so quiet.

Zephyr isn’t alone in his office. Sitting across the desk from him is a lime-green alligator monster, with a curly mop of blonde hair atop her head.

They both stand as Sans enters. He bows and she curtseys.

“A pleasure as always to see you, my queen.” Says Zephyr, ever-polite. “How, may I ask, fares the king?”

“Fully recovered.” Says Sans. “He’s too strong to ever be kept down for long.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised. If he could make even the _human_ retreat with his magic prowess—”

“What did you call me here for?”

“Ah, right.” Zephyr brings the second monster closer. She’s wearing a lab coat over her blouse and skirt—is this his assistant?

“Ms. Bratty told me she knew you, and had an urgent message for you.”

Sans looks between them.

“Is this some sort of prank? I don’t know her. I’ve never seen her before today.”

His guards step closer.

Zephyr is immediately apologetic. He distances himself from Bratty.

“My sincere apologies. She had informed me that you were working on a secret project with her. She had been otherwise reliable, so I had thought to trust her in this.”

The magical pressure in the air grows stronger. Zephyr might very well kill her before the guards do, to salvage his image.

Bratty pipes up. “She told me to speak with you, like, alone. I have some totally important information for you.”

She’s frightened, despite her level tone. Sans can tell by the agitated twitching of her tail.

“Who is “she”?” Sans asks.

Bratty eyes the guard dubiously.

“Like, she made me promise.”

“Well no one’s going anywhere until you give me a name.”

Bratty considers her chances against the royal scientist, two guards, and the queen of the entire Underground—and makes the smart choice.

“Her name is Catty. She’s got, like, the most purple fur I’ve ever seen—”

“Okay.” Sans’ gaze flicks to the guards. “I know what this is about now. You two can go.”

Despite his order, the guards hesitate.

“But the king—” One protests.

“The king isn’t here right now. I am.”

The guards share a look, a silent debate communicated between them.

“…We will be right outside.” The guard’s hand drifts down to rest on the pommel of his sword. “Let us know if there’s anything you need.”

The guards file out.

“You mind if we borrow your office for this?”

“Not at all.” Says Zephyr. Sans can practically feel the curiosity radiating out of him, but Papyrus had selected him for his obedience. The royal scientist gathers up a few materials and leaves them to it.

 Sans drags Zephyr’s chair over around the desk so he can sit next to Bratty. The closeness will imply more trust.

“So what’ve you got for me?”

Bratty launches into her tale. “Right! So, like, I haven’t seen Catty in _forever_ , since she became a royal guard, and then a couple days back she was in my apartment! Said I should keep that window closed in the future. But like, how is my plant supposed to get air that way?”

Sans is on the cusp of astonished laughter. How has this airhead survived so long in the Underground? Then again, she _is_ working in the Lab, so this might just be all part of her act. Those jaws of hers don’t look like much of a joke either.

Bratty twirls a strand of blonde through her claws.

“So her pretty purple fur is all like, matted and muddy and stuff, and I’m like Catty! You need a bath, girl. But she was all super-serious, and told me to give a message to the _Queen_. And I’m like, _the_ Queen? I’m so proud of her. But yeah! So she told me to tell you that _they_ —” She makes air quotes with her fingers around the word “they”. “—are hiding out in Waterfall. There’s like, a hidden cave path behind that old statue. You know, the one that’s falling apart? And some surface light is shining on it? There’s a button behind the pedestal that opens up the door and stuff.” Bratty’s tail swishes. “She didn’t tell me who she was talking about, but you do, right?”

Sans nods. “Thank you for relaying this information.”

“Like, no problem!” She perks up. “Does that mean that Catty is in your royal entourage?”

“…We’ll see.” If this information pays off, there might at the very least be a promotion around the corner for the cat monster.

~*~

They formulate a plan. Three guards will head in first, using stealth to judge and assess the situation. One of them will call the captain of the guard. They’ll hang up after two rings if it’s too risky or they are caught, three if they can claim victory. If the latter is the case, the three soldiers will be followed in by twenty of their finest to root out this rebellion. After a week of preparation, they’re ready.

There’s just one hitch.

“You’re not coming.” Sans insists, even as Papyrus dons his battle armor in front of him. An updated version of his royal guard armor, the king’s breastplate is black steel plating, with red trim. The armor is more robust than before, but still, what good is it if Papyrus’ own magic is working against him?

“I’m well enough now.” Papyrus ties the leather straps on his pauldron. Normally a servant would handle the many plates of his armor, but Sans had stopped him in the doorway of their room.

“Maybe to walk around, yeah, but there’s no way in hell you’re fit for a fight.”

“Don’t you understand that I _need_ to be there?” Papyrus asks. “I need to demonstrate that they have not weakened me. That our rule is secure.”

“You’ll have other opportunities to convey that. Opportunities that don’t endanger your fucking life, _again_.”

Papyrus meets his eyes. His eye lights are glowing red with determination.

“I’m going.” Sans knows any other protests he has are useless. Papyrus has always done whatever he wanted.

“I’m coming with you.”

“Of course.” Papyrus grabs his wrist and pulls him flush to his chest, eyes gleaming with bloodlust. “There would be nothing more fitting. Together we’ll show them what it means to trifle with the King and Queen of the Underground.”

Sans can’t deny that Papyrus’ promise sends a bolt of arousal to his pelvis.

Papyrus helps Sans into his own set of armor. Compared to Papyrus’, it’s much lighter, the magic-repellent chainmail crafted to encourage flexibility of movement while maintaining defense.

The royal couple make their way to a small chamber, where their hand-picked guards are awaiting them. Papyrus runs through their plan with the guards for a final time. As he speaks, Sans observes him with a critical eye. There’s not a hint of strain in his body. He stands tall, confident.

The trip to Waterfall is quick, and quiet. Once they near the old statue, Papyrus and Sans wait with the rest of the squadron as the three soldiers go forth alone. They hear the rasp of stone on stone as the hidden passageway is activated, and then, nothing but the faint rush of a nearby river.

Minutes pass in tense silence. Sans fidgets. Papyrus looks well after their journey from New Home to Waterfall, but there’s still that creeping dread within him.

Then, the captain’s phone rings. They wait with bated breath. One ring. Two. Three. The infiltration is a-go.

They approach the old statue. The captain leads, while Sans and Papyrus bring up the rear. The captain presses the hidden switch, and the entryway is revealed. The cavern is narrow; they’ll have to enter one at a time, and taller soldiers have to duck their heads. But at the very least they don’t have to fumble in the dark; the cavern is lit by intermittent torches affixed to the walls.

The small cavern path twists around for some time, until it opens into a large chamber. The path winds downward in a spiral, to a large hollowed-out room. There are tables, chairs, even beds set up in the area. The old violet banners of their predecessors are draped on the walls. There are effigies and propaganda posters of the Dreemurr Family crammed into the space, hoarded away. So _that’s_ what this is about—damn loyalists. Why do they try to cling to what’s already gone?

Though the chamber is large, there only appear to be thirty or so rebels in the space. One of them converses with their three guards. Evidently their numbers had been trimmed considerably after their attack on Papyrus.

The element of surprise is soon lost; a hidden sentry at the entrance spots them, and sounds an alarm. Any pretense of stealth gone, the guards pour down the walkway to the main room. The rebels, unprepared, scramble in every direction to grab weapons. The captain bellows, charging ahead with a magic-infused spear that pierces through the rebels’ first line of defense.

It’s not long before Sans and Papyrus are in the thick of it. The attacks Papyrus summons are excessive. He’s wasting magic, overcompensating to prove his point.

Papyrus hefts a femur bone in his hand before lobbing it right at Sans. The attack whisks just over his skull, imbedding itself in the chest of an advancing monster and pinning him to the floor. In five quick strides Papyrus is next to him, pulling him close to hiss in his ear:

“Stop focusing on me, idiot. Focus on the _fight_.”

Papyrus shoves him away roughly, before diving back into the fray.

Reluctantly, Sans obeys. He finishes off the monster Papyrus had trapped to the floor, and attacks any monsters that stray too close into his radius. A flash of bright purple catches his eye as Catty rushes by him. Claws primed, she pounces on one of the rebels, knocking her down. He tries to keep an eye on Papyrus, but even his brother manages to melt into the din of battle.

There’s a sudden hum in the air. Several of the rebels have grabbed magic-draining batons. The sight of the devices enrages Sans. Abandoning the position he’d been holding, Sans pushes forward through the chaos, sights set on the wielders of those weapons. He wants to blast them all away—but pulls back at the last minute. The focused beam of magic from a blaster might very well collapse the entire cave. Sans forms two jagged rows of bones, imitating teeth as they close down on monsters, ripping them to shreds. As the monsters dust one by one, he shoves bones through the batons until they’re just useless splinters. Though initially outmanned, the battle sways easily in their favor. Better equipped and trained, the royal guards cut easily through the rebel ranks.

Sans crushes the final baton, taking vindictive pleasure in the weapon’s destruction. Blinking sweat out of his eye sockets, he scans the ongoing fight, searching—where the hell is Papyrus?

He spots his brother’s flashy armor, and his mouth parts in a wordless warning as Papyrus is knocked to the ground by a bulky bull monster.

“Shit, shit, _shit_.” He shouldn’t have strayed so far from Papyrus’ side. Sans runs, pushing ally and enemy alike out of his way until he’s in range. His arm snaps out, and he grasps the monster’s soul. Sans lifts the bull off of Papyrus and flings him into the nearby wall.

“Papyrus!” He crouches by his brother’s side, helping him upright. There are rips in the sleeves of his uniform, marrow soaking into the material. But most alarming to Sans is that the tremors are back. Sans is a shit healer, but he clasps Papyrus’ hand in his own and wills the magic to transfer. Papyrus’ body responds eagerly, ravenously siphoning off Sans’ magic. Papyrus tries to push him away, but Sans refuses to budge.

The bull monster lurches upright, and stampedes straight for them again. Gritting his teeth, Sans lashes out with a spiraling bone attack. A full-body shield raises around the bull, and the bones bounce off the shield.

“Shit!”

Papyrus shoves Sans away, and their magic connection snaps off. Quicker than anything, he snatches up a dropped baton that had escaped Sans’s wrath earlier. Staggering upright, Papyrus stabs it forward. It melts through the bull’s shield like it’s nothing, and the moment it connects with the bull’s chest, the hulking monster drops like a stone. His shield evaporates entirely. Papyrus places his boot atop the monster’s head, and pushes _down_ —the skull gives with a crunch. Papyrus scrapes the monster’s dust off the bottom of his shoe.

Sans picks himself back off the ground again and joins Papyrus, subtly supporting him with a hand on his back.

Sans whispers angrily. “I told you, I fucking told you you wouldn’t—”

“Not now, Sans.”

During their struggle with the bull, the royal guards have finished disposing of the remaining enemy forces. The room is streaked with dust, piles scattered, blended together. Furniture is overturned and broken, and the large map of the Underground that adorns one of the walls has several rips and holes.

Papyrus’ gaze sweeps over his soldiers. They seem to have lost only one or two of their own; a true victory. Catty catches Sans’ gaze, and she nods. Her intel really did pay off. Sans makes a mental note to reward her later.

“Search the cavern. Check if there are other chambers and entrances. Make certain no one is trying to escape through an alternate tunnel system.” Papyrus orders. The guards fan out, making a final sweep of the area.

“Do you wanna sit down?” Sans murmurs, so only Papyrus can hear. He rights one of the overturned chairs.

“I’m standing.”

“Well, I’m bushed so I’m taking a seat.” He hasn’t expended so much energy in some time. “Might take a nap here too while I’m at it.”

He watches Papyrus walk through the room. Papyrus lingers by statues of the previous royal family, studying the smallest of the three boss monsters. Sans wonders what he’s thinking. Probably imagining what it would’ve been like if things hadn’t gone down like they had. If Prince Asirel was still kicking. Even if he was, he probably would’ve fallen at the human’s hands as well, so it’s moot. Sans feels vaguely guilty staring at the statue of the former queen, so he stops.

After a time, the guards file back in. Some report finding and disposing of a rebel, but none that they found outran them.

“Once we leave, collapse the tunnel.” Says Papyrus. “We will crush this rebellion so thoroughly that no trace shall remain. It will be wiped from the pages of history.”

~*~

Sans flops into bed, exhausted. To make up for time lost while Papyrus was recovering, his lover has had them in back to back meetings for days now. It’s a good thing a grin is a natural resting state for a skeleton’s face, or his polite smile would damn well be falling off by now.

“Don’t fall asleep yet.” Is the first thing Papyrus says as he enters the room.

Sans grunts, pulling the blanket over his head defiantly and closing his eyes. He’s finished talking and emoting for the day. There’s the thump and swish of Papyrus changing his clothes. The slap of feet on tile, the rush of water from the bathroom sink. Subdued, soothing noises.

Sans has nearly dropped off when the mattress dips, Papyrus joining him.

“I told you not to sleep.” He murmurs. Papyrus flings an arm over Sans’ shoulder, spooning him. His hand wanders under Sans’ loose t-shirt, phalanges trailing over his ribs.

Papyrus pulls him closer. Sans can feel a bulge rubbing against his tailbone. He swallows. That woke him right up.

“We shouldn’t.” Sans says, but he tilts his neck to give him access. Papyrus nips at his clavicle.

Sans shudders as Papyrus’ other hand comes down to stroke at his lower spine. It’s been…a while. A month, at least. Sans’ body is eager for it, but he hesitates.

“Pap, stop.” Papyrus’ hands still.

“What’s wrong?”

“We really shouldn’t. You’re still recovering.”

Papyrus growls. He rolls on top of Sans, pinning him to the bed.

“What must I do to stop your incessant worrying?”

“You gotta get better, you can’t just waste your magic on stupid shit.”

“I’m not an idiot. I know my limits.” Though only in the privacy of their shared bedroom would he admit to having limits at all.

“Yeah, but knowing them doesn’t mean you won’t push ‘em.”

“Sans.”

It’s hard for Sans to fight against that look.

“…Fine.” He gives in. “But you gotta agree on something first.”

“Whatever you want.”

Sans rearranges them, so now Papyrus is beneath him. He sits on Papyrus’ chest, facing away from him. He undoes the drawstring on Papyrus’ sleep pants, and frees his cock. Saliva gathers in his mouth as his tongue manifests.

“Just let me take the lead.”

“You want to do all the work? What a miracle— _fuck._ ”

Papyrus groans as Sans takes him in his mouth. He bucks up, and Sans accommodates, swallowing him down to the hilt. He’s warm, twitching in Sans’ mouth.

Sans hums around the erection, smirking as the vibration makes Papyrus shudder. He paws almost frantically at Sans’ shorts, trying to tug them off. Sans’ mouth slides off of Papyrus’ dick with a wet pop.

“Hands down, Papyrus. Remember, I’m in control.” Once Papyrus has let go, Sans pulls off the shorts himself, and tosses them off the bed somewhere. “You’ve got my permission to use your tongue, but that’s it.”

Sans returns his attention to the dick in front of him, which is already leaking precum. His tongue swirls around the head, and he feels the swipe of Papyrus’ tongue against his outer folds.

Sans parts his legs further, encouraging him. His hips jolt as Papyrus sucks at his clit. Sans grinds down on Papyrus’ face as his mouth bobs up and down on his cock. Sans lets his eye sockets fall shut, and for the moment he doesn’t have to worry about anything; he can just exist in this moment of mutual pleasure.

He wants Papyrus inside him. He flips around, so he can see his lover’s face as he positions himself and sinks down onto him. Papyrus watches him with unabashed desire, Sans’ slick smeared across his face.

“Keep still,” Sans breathes out. He starts moving, up and down. “Just let me, let me…”

Sans rides him. He wants to pick up his speed, slam down, but he just continues to rock against Papyrus slowly. The memory of Papyrus’ rattling, his bones barely holding together, is still fresh in his mind.

The slow pace diverges from their usual frantic speed, but it’s no less passionate. With each gentle thrust, they’re both brought teasingly close to climax.

“I love you, Pap. I love you, I love you—”

Sans gasps as Papyrus orgasms inside him. He fingers his clit, rubbing quick circles until he climaxes as well, tightening around Papyrus, milking his cock.

Sated, Sans dismounts. He cuddles back up to Papyrus’ side, tugging the cover over them both.

“We should clean up first.”

“Tomorrow.” Sans clings to him, refusing to budge. “Let me just hold you, okay?”

“Your filthy habits are rubbing off on me.” Papyrus grumbles. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing a washcloth Sans had been using to clean Papyrus while he was laid up. He wipes off his face before planting a skeleton kiss on Sans’ forehead.

Papyrus is fast asleep within moments, utterly drained. His breath smoothens out, blowing lightly on Sans. He’s alive, he’s here, with Sans. He’s getting better day by day. Sans reaches up, stroking the curve of his sleeping lover’s jaw. Papyrus needs more time to recover, but Sans has ensured he can do so at his own pace. After the rebel hideout was stormed, Sans whispered a rumor in the right ears. The story goes that Papyrus had wiped out the rebels almost singlehandedly, had emerged from their hideaway with armor grey with dust. When a human loses a significant amount of blood, their body replenishes what was lost and then some. It’s the same with magic: now the king’s power has evolved from terrifying to godly.

That’s the truth the people will know. And if anyone tries to dispute it, well. Sans won’t let them get close enough to his brother again to find out otherwise.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I post my update schedule on [tumblr](http://themanicmagician.tumblr.com/).


	7. The Royal Guard (Part One)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Sans returns home injured, Papyrus vows to become stronger, to protect his brother. No matter what it takes.
> 
>  
> 
> (Aka Papyrus' tragic anime past, part one.)

Papyrus sits by the front window of his father’s estate, waiting for someone to return home. Gaster has been holed up in the Lab for two weeks, and their cupboards have become bare enough to prompt Sans to dig around their father’s room for spending money and voyage out into the capital himself. Papyrus had wanted to go with him, but Sans insisted he stay here. His brother said he should keep watch in case their father returned, but Papyrus isn’t an idiot babybones. Sans is afraid. Striped shirts don’t grant the same leniency they used to. Without Gaster’s presence, leaving the house has become dangerous.

Papyrus fiddles with his cube, one of the rare gifts from his father. The colored squares are curling at the edges. He peels the plastic up before smoothing it down again, and shuffles the cube around. Solving its initial purpose was a day’s work; now, he arranges the cube colors into different patterns, or just revolves squares to keep his hands busy as he thinks.

Sans is strong. He must be. Their father is close friends with the king, and King Asgore wouldn’t permit weaklings in his court. So if their father is strong, it follows that that strength has passed down to them as well.

He has nothing to worry over.

And still, he waits at the front window, which gives him a view of the large lawn. At one point, Papyrus tries to leave the house, but turning the doorknob makes his knees knock.

The hours stretch on. The Underground grows darker, and he can’t wait a moment more. He stands, legs stiff with inactivity, and hurries over to the red rotary phone in the drawing room. The number for his father’s secretary is written on a sticky note posted on the wall above it.

Papyrus dials her number. He wraps the curled cord around his hand as the phone rings, and rings, and rings.

“Dr. Gaster’s office, how may I help you?” She sounds terse, no-nonsense.

“I, um,” Papyrus squeaks.

“How may I help you?” She asks again.

“I need to speak with f—with Dr. Gaster.”

“And who is speaking?”

“I-It’s, I’m his son?”

There’s a brief silence, and Papyrus fears she might hang up on him, thinking he’s a prank caller.

“Dr. Gaster has asked not to be disturbed for the moment, but I can take a message for you.”

Papyrus swallows. What to tell?

“Could you just tell him that Papyrus is asking him to come home? It’s about Sans.”

“I’ll relay your message.”

There’s a click and the line goes dead.

Papyrus returns the phone to his cradle, feeling sick. Has he made the correct decision? If he bothered Father for no good reason, if he made Father  _angry_ —

There’s a crackle of displaced air near the front door, a sound he’s come to associate with—

“Sans!”

Papyrus rushes to greet him. His relief warps into horror as he reaches the front door. His older brother is leaning heavily against the door for support. His face is scratched, filthy with dirt. He’s holding tightly to a brown paper bag of groceries.

“Heya, Paps.” His stupid brother is trying to sound cool, in control, but Papyrus sees how he winces with each small shift of his body, hears the reedy rasp to his voice. “I got us some eats.”

“Forget the dumb food!” Papyrus cries, moving closer to him. Where else is he hurt? “What happened?”

“Ran into a few punks on my way outta the store, is all. I’m fine.”

“You’re  _not_!” Papyrus stamps his foot. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I called Father, he’ll be here any minute!”

Sans scowls. “We’re fine without him.”

“You were gone for over six hours! Six!! I d-didn’t know if you were, you were h-huh-hurt, or…”

Papyrus’ breath hitches as tears spill from his eye sockets.

“Aw, c’mon, don’t cry.” Sans pushes off the wall, and wipes away Papyrus’ tears with the sleeve of his sweater. “You know I hate that.”

Papyrus scrubs at his face. “S-Sorry, I…Sans!” He gasps, alarmed. Where Sans had been leaning is now a smear of red. “You’re bleeding!”

Papyrus circles around Sans to check his back, and fresh tears spring to his eyes. There’s five distinct rips in his sweater, like a large claw had swiped his brother’s back.

“Relax, Paps, it looks worse than it is. Let’s start cooking dinner, okay?”

Sans only makes it a few steps towards the kitchen when he starts to sway. When Papyrus tries to steady him, Sans pushes him away.

“Just a little dizzy for a moment, I’m fine,” Sans says.

But after another step his eye lights gutter out, and Papyrus catches him as he crumples to the floor. The bag of groceries falls from his hands, food rolling out across the carpet.

Papyrus doesn’t care about that. His brother is hurt. He slaps Sans’ face lightly, then harder, but he remains slack and unconscious.

“Sans! Sans!” He shakes his brother, screams his name. Still, he does not stir.

He doesn’t know what to do. He hasn’t been taught how to use healing magic, but he tries anyway. Magic sparks and sputters at the tips of his phalanges, but goes no further. His pants are slowly soaked with his brother’s marrow. He can’t leave the house for help; anyone with half a brain would see them as easy pickings, free EXP for the taking.

Papyrus doesn’t know how long he’s held his brother, until suddenly his father is there as well, prying Sans from his arms. Papyrus instinctively clings to Sans.

“Let me heal him.” Gaster says, but it takes several repetitions of the sentence before Papyrus comes back to himself enough to release his brother.

Papyrus watches, hawk-like, as his father turns Sans carefully onto his stomach. He presses both hands gently to his back, and a flood of healing magic lights up the room.

“Is he going to be alright?”

“He’ll survive.”

His father asks why Sans was out of the house in the first place, and Papyrus explains.

“So weak,” Gaster comments. He finishes off the wounds on Sans’ back, so he turns him over again to tend to the injuries on his face. “Weaker than I expected, at his age. Do you want to prevent this from happening again?”

Papyrus nods.

~*~

This is the second time he’s been to his father’s Lab. It’s clinical, with its white walls and sanitized smell. It gives off the sense of efficiency—there’s no idle gossip, no easy banter, just hundreds of scientists hunched over their respective tasks. Papyrus is attracted to every room and experiment he passes by, but his father’s quick, long strides hurry him along.

They get into an elevator. Gaster punches in a code, and they descend further into the Lab.

“This level is my private workplace,” Gaster says, as they step out of the elevator. “The king has given me free reign with the capital’s pool of degenerates, and that’s what we’ll be working with today.”

Gaster brings him into a room. There’s a monster inside, unconscious on a hospital bed. He’s hooked up to multiple monitors.

Gaster puts a hand on Papyrus’ shoulder. His touch feels heavy.

“Dust him.”

Papyrus looks up at Gaster, astonished. “But I can’t just—”

“Why are you arguing with me? Did you not want to get stronger?”

“Yes, but…” The monster’s just lying there.

“You’re weak right now. You’d be useless against an actual threat.” Gaster pushes him forward. “You need LOVE to protect your brother.”

Papyrus approaches the monster’s bedside. His eyes are sunken into his skull. A machine breathes for him. Papyrus touches the curve of his palm—it’s freezing. This monster is as good as dead already. And his father said he was a degenerate. No one would miss a monster like that, not even a brother.

“How do I do it?”

“Sans has taught you how to summon a bone attack, yes?”

Papyrus nods. Pulling upon his magic, he crafts a long femur bone, glowing red. It hovers above the comatose monster.

“You need to pierce the monster’s soul. A direct hit will dust him instantly. But you must strike with the intent to kill, or you will fail.” Gaster’s tone implies that failing him is not an option.

Papyrus aligns the bone attack over the monster’s chest.

With a sharp gesture of his hand the attack pierces down.

The monster’s body jolts upon impact. He lets out a low croak of breath before disintegrating into dust.

Papyrus gasps as a wall of euphoria slams into him. Gaster steadies him when he wavers.

“How do you feel?”

Sick, strong.

“Alive.”

~*~

Slumber eludes him for days after his first kill. Whenever he closes his eyes, he sees himself in that monster’s place. Trapped in the hospital bed, unable to so much as twitch a finger as the monster rips magic through his chest. When he jerks awake in a cold sweat, his own gasping breaths in his ear sound like the monster’s last rattling lungful of air.

The second monster is easier. He hesitates less before delivering the blow. His LOVE ticks upwards again, but he doesn’t feel the same dump of rapture as he did the first time—not until a fourth monster is dead by his hand.

It was whispered around the schoolyard that LOVE changed a monster; the higher it was, the less they felt, until they became a callous killing machine. Papyrus feels nothing of the sort; rather, he feels more powerful, more confident, more belligerent.

Gaster has not praised him, but Papyrus did not expect him to. He merely leads him from one room to the next, collecting the dust Papyrus creates into large glass jars.

After Papyrus has felt the surge of power three times, Gaster brings him to a target that can actually fight back.

The cat monster leaps up on her feet as Gaster and Papyrus enter her cell. Her claws primed, she charges for Papyrus’ throat—his magic instinctively rallies, and the wave of bone attacks hobbles her, ripping muscle and chipping bone from her legs. She’s still yowling, curled in a ball and clutching at her ruined limbs when Papyrus silences her forever.

Pleased with the demonstration, Gaster begins to train Papyrus, in addition to his dusting sessions. His father is a grueling teacher, his lessons tempered with experience from the war Aboveground, with the humans. Fueled with determination to not disappoint his father, and to protect his brother, Papyrus excels in each task that is put before him. Gaster even spars with him on occasion. Papyrus has never landed so much as a scratch on him. It’s not a difference of LOVE, but Gaster’s own cunning. He takes advantage of Papyrus’ weaknesses and vulnerabilities in his battle techniques. Each time he’s knocked down, Papyrus learns a little bit more on how to defend from creative, underhanded tactics. For months, everything goes smoothly.

And then Sans finds out.

Papyrus doesn’t know how he learned of his training sessions, but one day he just showed up right as Papyrus executed his target, the smell of burnt dust still thick in the air.

Ignoring Papyrus, Sans marches right up to Gaster, roiling magic burning from his left eye socket.

“What the fuck have you done to him?” He spits.

“The same I’ve been doing for you,” Gaster says, calmly. “Preparing him for the world.”

“You had no right—no right—”

“Brother, it’s okay!” Papyrus wills Sans to calm down. Gaster is not a patient monster. “Father is helping me to get stronger.”

“Stay out of this, Papyrus,” Sans says, without so much as looking at him.

Unbidden, white-hot anger flashes through him. How dare Sans be so dismissive, like he’s some  _kid_ who doesn’t know what the grownups are talking about.

“We’re not going to be your guinea pigs any longer.” Sans says. “It’s over.”

“Brother, I asked him to teach me, I want to  _help._ ”

“Papyrus is leagues stronger than you were at his age. Would you really rob him of the opportunity to prove himself? That would be the cruelest thing you could possibly do, Sans.”

“He’s not going to be your little killing machine. I don’t give a fuck how you justify it. We’re leaving.” Sans grabs Papyrus by the hand, roughly tugging him towards the door. Papyrus yanks his hand away.

Sans sighs, like Papyrus is testing  _his_ patience. “Papyrus—”

“Stop treating me like a kid! Why won’t you listen to me?”

“Because you don’t understand a goddamn thing you’re saying! Don’t argue with me.” Sans reaches for his arm again and Papyrus sees red.

_“No_!”

His magic lashes out with his anger, and Sans is knocked viciously to the floor.

The haze of his rage evaporates as Sans groans in pain, clutching at his mouth. Papyrus gasps at the sight of blood welling in Sans’ mouth.

Sans hisses as Gaster pulls his hand away from his mouth, inspecting the injury.

“You cracked his tooth.” The words hit Papyrus like a damnation. “That’ll have to be pulled out. Let me—”

“I don’t need your fucking help.” Sans knocks Gaster’s hand away, and retreats.

Stricken with guilt, Papyrus tries to approach him.

“Sans, I’m sorry—”

“Save it. You’re just like him.”

Papyrus flinches back as Sans disappears with a crackle of magic. He didn’t mean—he didn’t want to hurt Sans.

“Ignore him. He’s merely upset.” Gaster says, patting Papyrus’ back. He leans into his father’s touch. “I do think this is a good indicator that we should proceed with the second half of your training.”

Papyrus looks up at him. “Second half?”

“It’s time for you to enlist in the royal guard.”

~*~

Papyrus eyes his new living accommodations, trying not to let his distaste show outright. The cabin is a quarter the size of his room in his father’s house, and he shares it with three others. The room is sparsely furnished. There are two bunkbeds, wedged against either side of the room. The mattresses are thin, the pillows flat. There are four small dressers for each of them, presumably for their clothes and personal effects.

Since he’s the first one to arrive, he claims the bottom bunk on the right for himself, setting out his new training uniform to stake his territory. A small axolotl enters moments later, shy and silent. He clutches stuffed dinosaur in his claws, stroking its fur repetitively with a nervous energy.

It doesn’t take long for their two roommates to arrive. Papyrus hears them well before they burst inside. They’re a pair of loox monsters, hulking, thick-muscled, and worst of all, old friends. They stumble into the room together, elbowing and jostling playfully. They snicker down at Papyrus and the axolotl. One of them snatches the stuffed dinosaur from the axolotl’s hands, and holds it high out of his reach as he inspects it.  Papyrus subtly shifts away from the sniveling axolotl.

“The hell is this?”

“This isn’t a fun little summer camp for _babies_ ,” The other sneers. “How’re you going to survive the Rabbit Farm like this?”

Rabbit farm? Papyrus hasn’t heard anything about a rabbit farm yet, but he doesn’t dare ask for further information.

The loox holding the stuffed dinosaur rips it to pieces, before throwing it on the floor of the cabin.

“Better wise up now, kid. Or you’ll end up just like your toy.” The weight of the bully’s glare settles on Papyrus. “You got somethin’ you want to say, bone boy?”

Papyrus shakes his head mutely. The monsters shove past him on either side, and claim the right set of beds for themselves. One of them, noticing Papyrus’ extra sets of clothing are already set out, knocks them off the bed and onto the floor.

“That’s  _my_ stuff,” Papyrus says, tightly. The axolotl watches him, bug-eyed.

“Well it’s in _my_ way,” The loox sneers.

The two friends approach Papyrus. He stands firm. He can defend himself.

“Maybe your skull is a little thick. I’m Loto,” Says the loox that’s a duller shade of green. “And my friend here is Byron. As long as we live in this cabin together, you two toothpicks need to know your place.”

Growling, Papyrus summons a bone attack. Raising it like a club, he charges for Loto.

Loto catches the attack mid-throw. Papyrus tries to tug the bone out of his hand, but his grip is too strong.

A flicker of fear flashes through Papyrus as the two monsters advance.

“Looks like you need more of a demonstration.”

Papyrus is beaten down with humiliating speed. The axolotl is of no help, shivering in the corner. When the recruits are called to line up that afternoon, Papyrus is reprimanded for the tears in his new uniform, and that night, he sleeps on the lower left bunk.

~*~

Barely a month into their training, the Commander tells them to prepare for a class trip. Whispers spread through the recruits. They’ve all heard the term “Rabbit Farm” by now. Their senior classmates have mentioned it without explicitly stating what it is. The recruits with brothers and sisters in the program lord their knowledge over the rest, discussing preparations for the Rabbit Farm with knowing smiles. Papyrus can’t even tell if it’s a mental or physical exercise, so he quietly prepares best he can for any eventuality.

The day of the trip they’re awoken three hours earlier than normal, and after they all quickly get dressed, they file outside. The Commander assembles them in neat lines.

“Today is the last day you will be lined up by your father’s names. After today, your father’s name will mean nothing. Who you were before you came here will mean nothing. All that will matter is your personal performance today, and your resulting rank.” The Commander walks down the rows, appraising them. Papyrus keeps his head high, his spine stiff and straight. “Your initial rank will determine which classes you attend. Your performance in these classes will ultimately determine your final rank. Dependent upon your score, you may be stationed as lieutenant in one of our four districts. Or you might end up cleaning officers’ boots for the rest of your life. It all depends upon your actions, beginning today. Now, march!”

The recruits assemble, three abreast. They follow their Commander, marching out of the barracks. Older students hoot and holler as they leave, shouting sarcastic encouragements and making bunny ears with their fingers.

The Commander leads the group, while additional guards flank the sides of the group. Thanks to his father’s last name, Papyrus is situated near the middle of the pack.

The swift pace is unrelenting in its speed, and soon becomes brutal for some. Papyrus has not brought along a timepiece, but he figures it must take at least two hours for them to leave the capital and enter Hotland. The weariness of the recruits is compounded by the punishing heat. It’s not long before recruits are gasping for breath, sweating profusely as they struggle to keep the pace. Papyrus is one of the fortunate few, skinless; though the march is taking a slight toll on him, the heat barely touches him.

They’re midway through Hotland when a monster several rows ahead of Papyrus sways and crumples. One of the guards marching alongside the group hauls the recruit upright again, and the company continues on. Some time passes, and then the same monster wavers again, stumbling out of the group. The same guard lifts up the monster—and dusts them.

“The royal guard has no time for weaklings!” The guardsman roars, for all the recruits to hear. “If you falter here, you are not worthy of the title!”

The threat puts an extra jump in their step. No one wants to be singled out and picked off.

They pass by the Lab. While some monsters have gathered to watch the procession, Papyrus sees neither his father nor brother within the crowd. It’s not too surprising. Father has plenty to work on, and Sans…

A few hours more and they pass through the worst of the heat, entering Waterfall. The Commander shows no sign of stopping, so they continue on. Just how far is he taking them all? To the ruins of Home? Papyrus hates the uncertainty, unable to know if he’s pacing himself properly.

Waterfall is cooler, at least, but presents its own obstacle: marching through the muck. The Commander is leading them through via the most direct path, which is not always the travel-worn roads, but instead through muddy marshlands, where the footing proves both treacherous and laborious. No one wants to stumble and fall out of the company, but the mud suctions to their boots, making it difficult to keep pace.

On and on they march. Glowing flowers seem to mock them, echoing back their gasps for air. Papyrus’ father had brought him and Sans here, once. They had delighted in pointing out glimmering rocks in the ceiling, had whispered funny words to the flowers. Coming here now, the dark caverns just feel empty, isolated.

The false light that illuminates the Underground begins to dim as they finally reach Snowdin Town. The cold hits Papyrus harder than the heat, perhaps because his uniform has been soaked through with mud and swampwater. Beneath the damp fabric, his bones rattle softly.

“Company, halt!”

The sudden command jars him from his stupor. The recruits stop, air puffing visibly from their mouths. Fluffy flakes of snow have started to drift down.

They’re in the center of town. Houses are illuminated in the dim, monsters poking their heads out from windows to get a look at them. There are several long tables to Papyrus’ right. There are at least a hundred bowls on the table. He watches a rabbit monster ladle soup into another cup and set it with the rest. They each look piping hot, steam billowing from the bowls.

Papyrus’ mouth waters. Food, and warm food at that. It’ll provide a much needed kick to his magic, pull him back into peak condition.

The Commander’s voice carries over the group. “You will have a 15 minute rest period. Help yourself to the food, if you can.”

The Commander’s final words are like a gunshot at a relay. The recruits rush the tables. Papyrus tries to squeeze his way through the throng, but he doesn’t have enough mass on the other recruits to effectively shove. Bulkier monsters knock past him, and one jars him hard enough to knock him off his feet. Papyrus instinctively covers his head, as the remaining part of the herd step over him. He winces as they step on his hands, his spine. But when the crowd has diminished, and he’s returned to his feet, at least nothing is broken.

Monsters at the front grab two, three, four bowls of soup. Crying out in victory, they guzzle down the meals. Papyrus watches, along with the weaklings. Seething.

He sits. The snow seeps into his pants, unpleasantly, but his aching legs are grateful for the reprieve. While some of the other recruits squabble over leftovers, Papyrus’ gaze wanders from the demure rabbit, to the Commander, talking with the group of guards. The march alone wasn’t the test. The recruits number around 150—and yet, the sophomore class boasts a lean 75.  There’s something yet planned for them.

When their 15 minutes are up, the recruits are called back into formation. Oddly, one of the rabbits joins them, their arm held in the firm grip of a guard. The Commander leads them past the edge of Snowdin, and into the woods beyond. The forest is dense; thick, dark trees tower over them. It seems to stretch on forever. The overcrowding of the capital seems ludicrous, looking at the forest’s expanse.

“Recruits, halt!” The Commander stands upon an overturned log, so they all can see him. “Today you will be taking part in an exercise we call the Rabbit Farm. How well you perform today will result in your base rank, so it will be in your best interest to perform adequately.”

The guard with his arm on the rabbit leads him up to the Commander.

“Scattered throughout the forest are hundreds of monsters like this one.” The Commander grips the rabbit by the ears; he can’t help but squeak as he’s lifted up into the air. “You have until daybreak to return with a minimum of three scalps.”

The Commander summons his magic, in the form of a ruby sword, and lops the top of the rabbit’s head off. The Commander keeps the rabbit’s ears, and top of his scalp, in his hand, while the rabbit drops to the snow, already dead.

The sight makes Papyrus’ gorge rise. He doubles over and heaves. He hasn’t eaten since yesterday, so all that comes out is stringy, sour magic. Nearby recruits snicker at his display.

“You will notice that the rabbit is not dusting.” The Commander continues. “They have been fed beforehand with an embalming agent. There are few rules once you’re inside the forest. The rabbits will fight for their lives. You might tear into each other. The only absolutes are that you must return with three scalps by dawn, and you cannot leave the perimeter of the forest.”

Two guards grab hands, channeling magic between them. A field of energy crackles to life out of them, expanding to form a magical barricade, fencing them in to the forest.

“Begin.”

Monsters scramble in every direction. Some split off into groups; distantly, Papyrus notes that his two burly roommates have grouped together, shouting their plan of attack to each other. Papyrus stands still as monsters bump and brush past him, still in shock at the sight of the greying rabbit at the Commander’s feet. His father had him kill degenerates, scum of the Underground. Monsters that deserved to die. But these rabbits—what are their crimes?

He had agreed to join the guard because he understood their purpose—or thought he did. The guards are supposed to keep order, and punish wrongdoers. This hunt, this game, flies in the face of everything he believed them to be.

Papyrus startles as a guard slaps his back, making him stumble forward.

“Better get moving, recruit. The night won’t last forever.”

“I—I don’t understand.” Papyrus says, sickened. “They don’t deserve to be hunted down like—like _animals_.”

The guard shrugs, uncaring. “Life ain’t fair, kid. But if you don’t bring back three scalps, it’ll be your head rolling.”

The guard beckons for him to get moving. Still stunned, Papyrus lets his legs carry him away, into the forest.

“Isn’t that the doctor’s son?” One says to the other, before they’re out of Papyrus’ earshot.

He can’t dust someone that doesn’t deserve it. But if he fails to bring the scalps the Commander requires, that’ll be the end of him. He doesn’t want to die, but still. _Still_. There has to be another way out of this.

Papyrus’ pace slows, until he stops entirely. He can hear the sounds of skirmishes faintly, deeper inside the forest. Sans would know what to do, if he was here.

But he’s not.

In the bushes nearby, a twig snaps. Papyrus whips around towards the source of the sound, bone attacks sparking to life above his head. He strains his sight, but he can’t spot so much as a shadow. Was it a small animal?

He hears quick footsteps from behind, and realizes he’s been had. They’re approaching too swiftly for him to react properly—he’s barely turned when a strong fist catches him in the temple. He’s struck to the ground hard, fresh snow shoving its way through his nose and eye sockets.

Papyrus coughs, his head buzzing, when a firm clawed hand presses him further into the snow. It’s not a rabbit that surprised him, but another recruit, a gargoyle monster. Stone-faced, he raises a knife, aiming for Papyrus’ neck. A flurry of bone attacks force him to back off, give Papyrus enough time to stagger upright again. He backs away. The gargoyle circles him, studying him, trying to find the best place to strike. Three pairs of furred brown ears are already tied around the gargoyle’s belt loop.

“You’ve already gotten what you need.” Papyrus says. “Why attack me?”

“Commander didn’t say there was anything wrong with thinning the herd.” The gargoyle tosses the knife in his hand.

Papyrus checks him.

ALASTOR LV 7 HP 473/500

Alastor grins. “And you’re a measly 5. But don’t worry—it’ll be quick.”

Alastor catches the knife and lunges for Papyrus again. Papyrus barely dodges, the knife whistling by his head with inches to spare. Alastor’s tail lashes out, knocking Papyrus flat on his back. Alastor stabs down, and Papyrus rolls out of the way.

Papyrus flings a bone attack his way, but Alastor catches it. He squeezes it in his fist, until it splits with a sickening crunch. It dissolves in a shimmer of magic.

Papyrus sends more, but the attacks bounce off Alastor’s unfurled wings harmlessly.

“It doesn’t matter how you try to attack me. Your LOVE is too weak.”

Drawing deep from his magic, Papyrus walls his opponent in with a cube of attacks, before enclosing them around Alastor. He might be able to shake off some of Papyrus’ attacks, but he can’t dodge them all. Though his back and wings are unharmed from the barrage, Alastor yanks out a bone that pierced his stomach. Grainy dust trickles from the puncture wound.

“You little shit,” Alastor snarls. Dropping the knife, he goes down onto all fours and rams into Papyrus, catching him in the chest. Papyrus chokes as the air is knocked out of him. Alastor yanks up his uniform shirt, exposing his chest. Alastor’s hand wraps around a rib.

“ _Don’t_ —!”

Papyrus shrieks as Alastor snaps off his rib. The gargoyle tosses it aside, and reaches for the next.

Forcing himself past the pain, Papyrus sits up. Alastor hasn’t let go, and Papyrus can feel his second rib starting to give beneath his grasp.

Papyrus reaches up for Alastor’s belt loop and snatches a pair of rabbit ears. Fearful of his prize being snatched away, Alastor reflexively releases his grip on Papyrus, and reaches out for the ears—

Papyrus punctures Alastor with a sharp bone, and drags it through his insides. Sand spills out, pouring onto Papyrus and the snow.

Alastor lets out an unearthly shriek, but the damage has been done. He collapses upon Papyrus, motionless. The gargoyle bursts into a mixture of sand and dust, spraying Papyrus.

Revolted, Papyrus sputters and coughs as he spits out Alastor’s remains. He lays there in the snow for a moment, breathing hard. His chest burns with every jagged inhale.

Gingerly, he sits upright. His ribcage protests the slightest of movements. He muffles his yelps of pain with his glove.

He scatters bone attacks around the clearing. He pulls himself upright, and starts to search. Finding a white bone somewhere in a field of white snow is no easy task, and pain blooms in his side every time he bends down to search.

He’s not sure how much time passes as he looks for his rib, but his fingers are numb and he’s sweaty with the combined exertion and pain as he lifts the bone from the snow. He brushes it off, and lifts his shirt. He had broken his tibia once, falling from a tree in the front yard. Sans held his hand while Father slotted the bones back together and applied healing magic.

Papyrus winces as he presses the disconnected bone to the remainder of his rib. No one’s taught him proper healing magic, but after Sans’ collapse in their house, he scoured their library for books on healing techniques, so he wouldn’t repeat the same mistakes. He tries to recall the lessons left in the old tomes. Healing magic is about molding raw magic with care and compassion. By default, it’s easier to heal a loved one rather than yourself, as one must trick the magic into the compassionate state for the latter. Papyrus’ eye lights dim. He’s vulnerable, out in the open like this, but if he doesn’t heal his rib immediately, there’s a likelihood it won’t reattach later.

He lets his mind go back to that day, with Sans bleeding on the floor. His phalanges heat up, and the green magic gets to work. Papyrus feels a flash of giddiness—it actually worked!—but tamps down on it, keeping the scene in his mind until his rib is firmly reattached.

He traces his fingers around the joined segment. His rib is whole again, but the area is still tender. He tugs down his shirt again, and makes his way back over to Alastor’s dust. Two bundles of rabbit ears are mixed in with the dust, and the other set is a few feet away, half buried in the snow.

Disgust wells within Papyrus at the sight of the scalps. Most would steal the rabbit scalps and be done with it. But not him. The rabbits have done no harm, and do not deserve death. There has to be another way.

Papyrus leaves the dust and rabbit scalps behind. It’s grown pitch black, so he calls his bone attacks from the clearing. He dismisses most of them—it wouldn’t do to provide a beacon for his position—keeping only three to illuminate his path over gnarled roots and deep pockets of snow.

He walks almost aimlessly, while his mind runs through a thousand potential scenarios, none of them viable. He could look for a weakness in the force field perimeter, scamper home with his tail between his legs and beg forgiveness from his father. He could convince three rabbits to return to the Commander with him. He could try to persuade the Commander to give up this aimless, wasteful exercise. Papyrus scowls. Each idea he comes up with is more futile and ridiculous than the last.

Papyrus stumbles over something in the dark. He peers down, holding the glowing bone attacks close. It appears he’s tripped over a rabbit hole. It must lead to one of their warrens, surely. He’s more than small enough to fit inside. Before he can second guess himself, he shimmies down, into the hole. He goes in head first, so he can crawl with his arms, and see where he’s going. The soil loosens as he passes by, but he’s light enough that he’s confident the tunnels won’t collapse.

The tunnels have to lead to one large space. If he can get to the center, he might find some rabbits in hiding that he can reason with. Then, maybe his half-formed plan of leading the rabbits to the Commander will bear fruit.

But there seems to be no end to the tunnels, as Papyrus continues to crawl. His breathing is shallow in the cramped, dark space. Clods of dirt have gotten into his joints, his mouth. He’ll need a thorough bath after this is over.

The air changes as he turns another corner. It smells fresh. There must be another entry hole further ahead. He can pop out and get his bearings. He continues squirming his way through the tunnel until he reaches the exit. He claws his way up, until he’s reached the surface again. He breathes deep of the crisp, clean air.

Suddenly, a tail wraps around his neck. Choking, he claws at it, trying to break free. He’s pulled out of the rabbit hole and flung on to the ground. Something crawls atop him, peering down at him with beady eyes. Then the tail around his neck loosens.

“You’re not a rabbit.” He says.

“Obviously,” Papyrus grits out. His magic illuminates the area—standing before him is the axolotl from his cabin. His uniform is stained with dirt, but he appears to have gotten through most of the Rabbit Farm unscathed.

“Don’t think we ever introduced ourselves, did we? I’m Tully.”

He extends his hand. Bemused, Papyrus shakes it.

“Papyrus.”

“Why are skeletons always named after fonts?” Tully gripes. “So weird.”

When Papyrus doesn’t respond, Tully nudges him.

“Hey, relax. We’re on the same side here.”

“You tried to choke me to death.” Papyrus states, flatly.

“I didn’t know it was _you_. Why were you even in a rabbit hole to begin with?”

Papyrus rubs at his sore vertebrae. “But still, you’re dusting rabbits?”

“Uh, yeah? Are you not?”

“You sound surprised.”

“I thought you were strong, you know? It took guts to stand up to Byron and Loto that first day.”

“It’s not about guts. It’s wrong to kill these monsters when they haven’t done anything wrong.”

Tully shrugs. “You know the rules. It’s kill or be killed.”

“But…”

“Come on. You’re half-frozen. I set up a camp not too far off from here. Got a nice fire and everything.”

The axolotl sings a familiar arm around his shoulders, leading him along. Tully hadn’t been nearly as friendly and open in their cabin, but perhaps he’s grateful to see a recognizable face in the darkness. Papyrus knows he is.

“It’s just through these bushes,” Tully says.

Papyrus pushes through the foliage. Sure enough, there’s a campfire.

But he doesn’t expect to see Loto and Byron present, warming by the fire with a stack of limp rabbits stacked between them. There’s a pile of bones and fur as well, and Papyrus’ stomach roils. Not only have they killed rabbits, but they have been eating them, too.

“What…?”

Tully’s tail whips him hard in the back, knocking him to the ground. Papyrus growls. He’s getting tired of being attacked from behind.

Tully comes forward, wrapping his tail around Papyrus’ neck again. He’s dragged by the neck closer to the fire.

“What’s this?” Loto asks.

“If it isn’t bone boy!” Byron exclaims, seemingly delighted.

“I found him out by the warren,” Tully says.

“Smart of you, bones.” Byron bends down, knocking two knuckles against Papyrus’ skull. He snarls, ready to lunge for him, but Tully tightens his hold in warning. “But if you were a little smarter, you would’ve gotten there hours earlier to beat us to it.”

“I-If he was real smart, he wouldn’t have enlisted in the first place.” Tully jokes, weakly. He laughs at his own joke, but quiets as the two larger recruits throw him withering looks.

“Now, bones, what are we going to do with you?”

Loto grins, displaying his razor-sharp fangs.

“Chop him up and throw him in with the hares.”

Loto’s lips smack. “I’ve heard cooking with bones brings out the flavor.”

They laugh, all three of them. Papyrus can feel something within him breaking. He’s exhausted, injured, pushed to his absolute limit. This isn’t—this isn’t what he’d wanted, he can’t die here, why won’t Sans save him—

“Aw, look!” Byron coos, lifting Papyrus’ head up by his chin. “The babybones is  _crying_.”

Byron smacks him before letting him go. They keep laughing at him, and it’s all too much. He’s been beaten, mocked, betrayed by his fellow recruits. They’ve killed innocents. They…

Papyrus’ hands curl into fists. They’re filthy degenerates. His father taught him what to do with degenerates.

Papyrus whips his head around and bites down on Tully’s tail with all his might. His serrated teeth puncture Tully’s skin. Blood wells in his mouth, but he keeps biting, forcing his jaws shut until they crunch through bone.

Tully yowls, releasing his hold on Papyrus as he stumbles away. He clutches his tail, whimpering.

Byron and Loto watch Papyrus regain his footing. Wary, but still confident.

Something roars inside Papyrus, eager to be let out. Papyrus lets the whirlwind of feelings in his chest manifest. Before him materializes a massive animal skull, with red magic flaming from its mouth like fire.

“What the  _fuck_ —”

The skull opens its maw and a raw beam of magic bursts free, catching all three monsters in its radius.

There’s screaming, swiftly silenced, then the thud of bodies hitting the ground.

Papyrus stares in awe at the skull he’s summoned. It’s unlike anything he’s ever crafted before, unlike anything he’s ever seen. Papyrus shudders as a wave of EXP crashes upon him. He hunches in on himself, bones rattling with pleasure.

The skull rumbles lowly, and then it flakes apart, until a gust of wind carries the magic away entirely.

Papyrus approaches the three recruits. Their HP counts all read zero, but their bodies haven’t dusted. It must be because they’ve ingested some of the rabbits, and thus the embalming element inside them.

Papyrus is filthy, exhausted. His meager bed at the cabin would feel like heaven. He doesn’t have much time remaining before dawn hits. He looks over to the pile of rabbit corpses, and summons a bone attack.

~*~

Most of the recruits have already returned by the time Papyrus trudges back to the Commander’s position. A guard, catching sight of him, beckons him to present his prizes. Papyrus keeps his back straight as he makes his way to the front. The air stinks of the dead. Other recruits brought in the bare minimum, while some brought in several more sets of ears. The recruits are in various states of filth. Some emerged covered in grime and blood, while some came out virtually unscathed. Most have a distant, hollow look on their faces.

A small group of disgraced recruits have returned empty-handed. They’re kept separate from the main group by a few royal guards, but there’s been no movement to dust them—the task must be left to their parents, then.

When Papyrus reaches the Commander, he has to wait for the previous recruit to finish. She’s a small fish monster, smaller than him, even. But beneath her frizzy red hair is a wild yellow eye, and her blue body is soaked in red. She radiates savagery. Her other eyelid is glued shut with blood, but she doesn’t seem to care.

The recruit is pulling scalps from her inventory, adding to the already impressive pile. She hands over the last set to a guard.

“That makes 34, sir.”

“Impressive.” Says the Commander. “You’re undoubtedly the best of the group. Count on your rank being one, Undyne.”

She grins a toothy smile. “Thank you, sir.”

The Commander gestures to one of the guards. “Have her eye seen to.”

“Right away.”

The guard escorts Undyne away. She makes eye contact with Papyrus, briefly. He makes sure to telegraph his disdain.

The Commander steps around Undyne’s pile of scalps, and peers down at Papyrus.

“Now what do _you_ have for me, on the heels of that excellent display?”

Papyrus pulls the three scalps from his inventory, and tosses them at the Commander’s feet. The Commander nudges what was once the top of Tully’s head with the tip of his boot.

“These are not rabbits.”

“No, sir.”

“And am I to assume there are no rabbits in your inventory, either?”

“That is correct, sir.” He’d felt nothing as he carved off the scalps of the dead recruits. But he did dig a massive grave for the rabbits Tully, Loto, and Byron had desecrated. Burying the unfortunate souls was the least he could do. “But if I may—”

“You may not.”

“You asked for scalps, sir,” Papyrus speaks quickly. “You did not qualify what species of monster you required.”

Papyrus’ soul thuds in his chest as the Commander mulls over his words. The royal guards are watching him, too, hands on the hilts of their blades.

“You pass, strictly on a technicality. Thus you will have the pleasure of being the lowest rank of your class.”

“…Thank you, sir.”

The Commander moves on to the next recruit in line.


	8. The Royal Guard (Part Two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally back from hiatus with this fic. It was truly a chapter from hell; it was a pain to write, then I lost the entire thing when my computer died, then my printer jammed when I wanted to print it for edits after the second time it was written up. 
> 
> Blergh. Anyhow, this is the last of the angsty past stuff. Updates will be more regular now. Next chapter we get back to the good stuff--kingly drama and romance. Thanks for sticking around while I toiled over this. And, if there's anyone new--welcome!
> 
> WARNING: This chapter contains a nonconsensual situation between an adult and an underage teenager.

Sudsy water sluices across the tiled floor. Papyrus pushes the mop back and forth, working in vain to remove stains and grime that have sent in over decades. Once he finishes cleaning the classroom, next on his chore list is polishing the boots of his fellow recruits. Only after the last of his mindless but exhausting tasks are finished, will he be permitted to attend a sparring lesson with the rest of the bottom thirty.

Papyrus scowls at his own reflection in the mop bucket water. He’s better than this. He deserves to be at the top rank in the class, above that smug fish. He’s Dr. Gaster’s _son_ , after all.

In the five months since the Rabbit Farm, his climb up the rankings has been a crawl. He’s stuck cleaning toilets while his competitors are learning battle tactics. He didn’t enlist to pick up after others, to become a janitor—he joined to defend. How can he protect Sans if he doesn’t know the first thing about fighting?

He’d sent his brother several letters. (He doesn’t dare communicate with his father again, not until he’s actually worthy of it. Not until he’s the best.) Every month the trainees are permitted one letter, and every month Papyrus has sent one to Sans. Talking up his accomplishments—killing the rats that infested the pantry became catching and punishing food thieves—and asking after his brother’s health. (Did he replace the tooth that Papyrus accidentally cracked? Did he heal it? Did it still hurt him?)

Sans never replied. At first, he’d feared his first two letters were lost in the mail system. By the third he realized a reply wasn’t coming. But still, every month, he sends a letter. Hoping against hope that maybe this time, Sans will answer.

The mop is set back into its bucket, the waters a murky black with filth. Papyrus straightens, stretching out his sore back, before he moves on to his next task.

~*~

Pain.

His skull is burning, there’s fire running down his face, scalding his socket.

He passes in and out of consciousness. Every time he blinks there’s someone new at his bedside. He asks for his brother. A figure in white, too bright, painfully piercingly bright, reaches for his head. _Pain_. He bites down until they let go, and licks the dust off his teeth.

He sees his father in the corner of the room, a twisted phantom of himself. Gaster lumbers towards him, a constant scream breaking free from his open mouth, the force of it cracking his skull.

Heat. Sweat. He’s dying, the fire is making his bones drip away to nothingness. He wants Sans.

He wants to die.

~*~

Papyrus wakes up in the infirmary.

There’s a persistent dull throbbing in his skull. His mind feels sluggish, stuffed up with cotton. His face is numb. Itchy.

His struggles to sit upright alert a nearby nurse, a whimsun.

“Are you with us, this time?” She asks.

This time?

“I think so,” Papyrus says, thickly. There’s a glass of water set at his bedside. The water is tepid, but he drinks deep before setting it down again. How long has he been unconscious?

A thin layer of green magic settles over him, like an all-encompassing blanket. It peters out just as he gets comfortable.

“Your vitals are looking much better. You’re nearly at full health again.”

Papyrus looks down at his hands. Something is off, but he can’t place it.

The nurse flutters closer. Papyrus flinches back as she gets far too close. She tuts and smooths down the—bandage?—over his eye.

“What…?” Papyrus reaches up to feel. A thick pad of gauze and bandages are taped over his eye.

“Don’t poke it now. You’ve had a deep cut across your eye socket. It’s still healing. Do you recall why you were brought to the infirmary, trainee?”

Papyrus tries to think. He remembers tangled nightmares of his father, but before that…

“I was…I cleaned classroom 1F. Then I was going to polish boots before going to the training grounds.”

“You’re missing time. You went to the training grounds and got in a nasty fight. Stupid of you. Unnecessary. You’re lucky a classmate broke it all up or you’d be going home to your brother in an urn.”

“I don’t…I don’t remember anything.” How is a huge part of his memory just…gone? He tries to visualize the scene the nurse sets. His throbbing skull produces no answers.

“Unfortunately, we don’t have any previous skeleton monsters on record, so I can’t give you an estimate on how long recovery will take. Physical or mental. It takes the average monster several weeks to fully recover from a facial wound of this magnitude, but it’s anyone’s guess if your memories will return.”

“You should have notified my father. He has medical texts on skeleton and ghost types.” Even if his father detests Papyrus’ poor rank, there’s no way he’d ignore this. He wants Papyrus strong, not damaged.

“We contacted your next of kin when you started to grey. They usually don’t come back from falling down, you know. All that was listed on your file was a brother. Sans, right?”

“Yes, but my father, Dr. Gaster—you _must_ know him. He’s the Royal Scientist!”

The nurse frowns, her brows furrowing. “Perhaps the blow to your skull was more devastating than we realized.”

“What are you talking about?”

“There hasn’t been a Royal Scientist since the days we were Aboveground. The King delegates work to a group of chief staff members at the Lab, but no one has impressed him enough to warrant that honor.”

“But that’s—that’s not right. You’re lying, why are you lying to me?” Papyrus struggles to get up, but the movement agitates his wound, pain shining in past the curtain of numbness. He groans, clapping a hand over his socket.

“Calm down.”

“Let me—let me call him. I’ll prove it!” Trainees aren’t typically allowed access to phones, but this is all wrong, he needs to hear his father’s voice to ground him.

“If I do this will you stop fussing and stay still?”

Papyrus nods, obediently lying back on the bed again.

The nurse sighs. “You better be grateful. I really shouldn’t be doing this.”

She removes her cellphone from her inventory and hands it over. He dials the number he knows by heart. His father’s personal number, only used for emergencies.

One ring, and then nothing but hissing static. The whimsun has one eyebrow arched, I-told-you-so written all over her face, but no, she has to be wrong.

Papyrus dials his father’s secretary, who picks up promptly.

_“Hello?”_

“Put me through to Dr. Gaster. It’s an emergency.”

 _“One moment please.”_ Through the speaker he can hear the click of fingers on a keyboard. _“I’m sorry, but there’s no one by that name at the Lab.”_

A chill bolts down Papyrus’ spine.

“But…he has to be there!”

_“What monster type is he? I could look up—”_

“Skeleton!”

 _“Okay,”_ She remains professional despite his outburst. _“Let’s see. We have a Calibri, a Garamond, and a Comic Sans in our database. No one else. You’re sure this Dr. Gaster is a skeleton and not a wight?”_

Papyrus can’t muster an answer. Without another word, he hangs up the phone.

This doesn’t make sense. He’s so sure—he _knows_ the truth. He remembers his father. In vivid detail he can call to mind every memory of him. His father gifting him with the puzzle cube. Bringing him and Sans to Waterfall. Training with his father, learning from him. He can picture it all.

But…

He brushes his fingers over the gauze. Does he just think he knows what the truth is? Reality doesn’t match up with what he thinks he knows. Shouldn’t he trust what’s in front of him? Maybe the nurse is right; maybe there was more damage to his skull, to his mind, than they’d thought.

“I’m going to keep you here a few more days for observation.” She pats his shoulder. “Maybe in time your memories will resurface. Would you like something to sleep?”

“Please.”

He’s handed pills, and water, which he swallows. In minutes, he’s out.

~*~

Papyrus stops talking about Gaster, and within the week he’s released with a handful of bandages and medical tape.

His fellow trainees treat him different, now. Some look at him with a grudging respect; others, fear.

He’s eating alone at the mess hall, as usual, until the status quo is interrupted when he’s joined by Rank One. Undyne.

She slams her tray down on the table. Papyrus watches with bemusement as Undyne scarfs down her meal in minutes. When finished, she belches, and wipes crumbs from her face with the back of her hand.

“Is there a reason you’re here, bothering me?”

“Just wanted to see how you were making out. Make sure to change your bandages every two days.” Undyne taps under her eyepatch. “Don’t leave it exposed because if you get an infection even I can’t cover your ass.”

Papyrus stirs his bland porridge. The top trainee in his class is sitting across from him, giving him advice. To what end? He’s never spoken to her before today, not directly. Unless…

“I don’t know what happened, that day at the training grounds.” He’d been unconscious for nearly two weeks, the nurse told him. Undyne frowns at him, and he launches into an explanation. “The wound, it caused memory loss—”

“It wasn’t that crack in your skull. You were crazy on LOVE.” She shrugs. “Way I heard it go down, is you saw some higher ranks picking on the lowers and went ballistic. There’s seven less in our class now, because of you.”

Papyrus’ soul clenches. He pushes away his porridge.

Undyne pushes it back towards him.

“You better eat up. You’ve made a lot of new enemies, you know. Those elites had friends. And the trainers are pissed because you’re making them look bad.”

“How so?”

Begrudgingly, Papyrus takes a bite of porridge. He hadn’t noticed until now, but he has gained a big chunk of EXP. The dust of seven monsters is on his hands. Did they deserve it? Was it justice? Like when his father told him to—like when he had killed the criminals. He’ll never know for sure. And he has to live with that.

“You’ve made a mockery of the ranking system, is what you did. You’re rank what, 85?”

“74.”

“Still, a pretty pathetic number.” Papyrus bristles, but she plows on. “But it doesn’t mean a damn thing. You dusted 20, 17, and 8 through 4. If you could do that, lowly 74 that you are, then clearly the rankings are way off. Makes my Rank One look like shit, too.”

“So why are you giving me advice? Why help me?”

“I’ve been watching you for a while, punk. I saw what you did at the Rabbit Farm.” Undyne leans forward over the table, pinning him with an intense gaze. “You and I aren’t like them. We’ve got real plans for once we get out of here. We want to change how things are done around here. You, you’ve got some weird pity for wimps, and want them protected. I don’t get your hang-up, but whatever.”

“And you?”

“The guard as it is is a fucking disgrace.” She snarls. “Enlistment levels are pathetic. We’ll never win the war like this.”

“So your goal is management.”

“Thank larger.” Her golden eye flashes. “I’m going to be _Captain_.”

The current Captain of the Royal Guard has held the position for centuries. Papyrus has his doubts that skinny toothpick of a fish in front of him will manage to topple a seasoned warrior. Then again, he’s never seen a stack of corpses as high as the one she piled up during the Rabbit Farm.

“I don’t care if you think I can’t do it. I’m going to be Captain, you just watch me. With your one eye, if that’s all you’ve got after that bandage comes off. You watch.”

And in that moment, Papyrus believes her.

~*~

Papyrus is elevated to Rank Five in the wake of his rampage at the training grounds. Being so close to the top of the ladder gives him more privileges than he knows what to do with. He’s given a new room, larger and well furnished, in an isolated barrack for the top 15 in the class. Instead of the dusty training grounds, Papyrus is given access to a gym with modern equipment, to train with whenever he wants. He can get food whenever he wants, can send as many letters as he likes. (He still sends one dutifully to Sans, every month. He wants to ask Sans about Gaster, their father, but no. Sans would think he’s gone mad.)

Most trainees don’t advance as dramatically as Papyrus had. The Rabbit Farm, horrific as it was, served as a good indicator of where a monster’s capabilities lied. Lower ranked trainees are given an emphasis in dull grunt work, where higher ranks had classes in addition to sparring sessions.

Everyone avoids Papyrus, save for Undyne. He learns that she had been the one to stop him, when he’d been half-crazy with LOVE. If he had attempted to dust a teacher, they wouldn’t have let him off in one piece. Undyne may have very well saved his life. She sees something in him. Something he wants to live up to, insufferable as she may be.

She’s been helpful enough to lend Papyrus her notes on various subjects, so he can catch up on all the classes he’s missed months of lessons in. (He just doesn’t sleep for several days. It’s fine.)

Papyrus has defied the low expectations of his teachers, and is excelling in all his classes. Which is why he’s confused to receive a request from his war history teacher after class.

“Has there been a problem with my work?”

He stands stiffly before the teacher’s desk. Ms. Silk, a spider monster the shade of rose pink, stares him down with all eight of her eyes. Her grin shows off her fangs.

“On the contrary. Your performance has been exemplary, considering the leaps in knowledge demanded of you.”

So what is he doing here? She titters at his unvoiced confusion.

“Come closer, child.” She beckons him over. He walks around her desk. One pale pink hand reaches out. His jaw sets as her fingers trace the line of the scar across his eye. The wound hasn’t healed entirely yet; her gentle touch stings.

“So brave. We need more like you.”

Two more hands wrap around his waist, and pull him to her lap.

“Ms. Silk, what are you doing?”

He tries to extricate himself, but as soon as he gets one hand off of him, another grabs on. His soul hammers in his ribcage.

“Don’t tell me I’m your first. This is an unexpected treat.” Ms. Silk purrs against the side of his skull. One hand unbuttons his fly, while others still dive beneath his shirt, stroking. “Surely another instructor has sampled these lovely alabaster bones?”

“Stop it—please—”

This is happening too fast for him to process. Why is she rubbing, right there—

Papyrus shrieks as her fangs bite deep into his neck, like twin knives. Her poison flows inside him, drips down to the collar of his uniform.

He feels heavy. Lightheaded. His mind and limbs are slow to respond.

“Hush, Five. Don’t fret. You’re lucky it’s me and not one of those low tier brutes.”

His clothes are plucked away, and dropped on the floor. Dully, he thinks that his father would never have allowed this to happen. If he’d been real, they wouldn’t dare touch Dr. Gaster’s son. But Ms. Silk’s fingers dip into every bump and divot of his body. He can’t hide anything from her.

He wants her to stop. He wants to ram a bone in her neck—

Papyrus gasps as a hand squeezes his spine. His back arches at the unfamiliar, but pleasant, sensation. Her LOVE dwarfs his. She’d kill him the moment he summoned his first attack.

Ms. Silk drags a set of fingers across his collar bone. Papyrus heaves forward against the limbs restraining him to bite her arm.

She hisses, flipping him to face her before smacking him soundly across the face, grazing his scar.

“That wasn’t very nice.” Ms. Silk frowns at the indent of Papyrus’ teeth in her forearm. “I was doing you the courtesy of gentleness for your first time, but I suppose you need a firm hand.”

Fingers tease the holes in his sacrum and circle around his pelvis.

“I’ll—I’ll report you!” Papyrus forces the threat out between his strangled moans.

“Child. Do you think you’re my first? Do you think no other of your teachers partake in the supple, fit bodies of the trainees? This is how things are done, don’t you see? Now hush and enjoy it.”

Heat builds in his pelvis, and an erection springs up. He didn’t even know he could do this—he doesn’t want to.

“How lovely,” Ms. Silk hums. “What a pretty color you have.”

Long fingers coil around his erection. The sharp point of her thumbnail dips inside his slit, making him scream.

It only takes a few firm tugs for him to reach his peak, and shoot his release all over her hand.

“Oh, done already?” Ms. Silk laughs, and he feels very small. “You boys have no stamina.”

She releases him, but warns: “I’m not finished with you yet.”

Ms. Silk lifts her skirt, and slowly drags off her black panties. Her legs fall open, exposing her entrance. Strings of slick leak out of her. She moves him closer.

Papyrus is made to kneel, staring at her slit.

“I don’t…what should I…?”

Ms. Silk huffs. “I thought you were clever.”

She grabs Papyrus by his skull and guides his mouth to her.

“Use your tongue.”

The tip of his tongue inches out, grazing her outer folds. Ms. Silk’s legs entwine around his head, pulling him closer still to her. All he breathes is her musk.

“Don’t keep me waiting, Papyrus.” Her nails scrape warningly on the back of his skull.

Papyrus’ tongue presses inside. It’s a pungent taste, like overripe fruit left set out in the Hotland air.

Ms. Silk coos. She rubs the small nub above her entrance.

“There you go, Five.”

Papyrus licks and suckles, trying not to gag. A pair of free hands drift down to stroke his spine and thumb his tailbone. Papyrus hates her, but he hates himself more. If he’d been smart enough to leave the situation before it escalated so far. If he’d never enlisted, if he’d just sucked it up and killed some worthless rabbits—

Ms. Silk’s thighs squeeze around him, and his face is spattered with her juices. It smears against his scar, drips inside his skull. He wants to scream, wants to claw it all out of him. His filthy now. Unclean.

“Very good.” Ms. Silk hums. A finger drags through the slick on his face, before hooking into his mouth. “Tastes sweet, doesn’t it?”

Papyrus nods. Ms. Silk chitters. “So quick to agree, now.”

She waves him off. “That will be all.”

She stands, and in one fluid motion redresses. The spider watches him with satisfaction as Papyrus picks up his things and hobbles from the room. Only once he’s free from her beady gaze does he allow himself to cry.

~*~

Papyrus has two paper dividers on his desk, one for incoming letters, requests, invoices, etc., and one for processed documents. It seems as if he’s unable to chip down the mountain of paperwork no matter how hard and long he works, new files heaped on every day. Sans tries to take on the brunt of the paperwork for him, but there are also many documents that require the King’s approval or dismissal, explicitly.

He’d imagined his kingly duties to be a bit more...dramatic. There are days where he just feels like an over-glorified secretary. 

Papyrus picks up the next sheet in the pile, a request for new bridges in Waterfall. The writer cites how mildew and water have made the current wooden planks slippery, citing the uptick in deaths related to it. The next pages lays out the bare minimum to fund a new stone bridge, and he can tell at a glance it’s too much for their current budget. There’s only so much gold in the royal treasury, and most aren’t aware of how little that is.

Papyrus sighs. He’ll have to find some way to squeeze in construction needs, to make it work. He sets it to the side for now, and is reaching for the next document when there’s a knock at the door.

“Enter.”

A servant slips in, curtseying hastily. “My King, Commander Rex is here to see you—”

The Commander barrels into the room, the servant scurrying to the side to avoid the door.

Papyrus stares up at the monster, unimpressed by his heaving shoulders and furious eyes.

“You’re out of line, Commander.”

“You’re one to talk, _King_ ,” He spits the title like an insult as he slaps down an opened letter on Papyrus’ desk.

The servant scampers out the door.

“What is the meaning of this? The Rabbit Farm is a key training method for new recruits. You cannot dismantle something so intrinsic—”

“I can and will do whatever I want,” Papyrus snarls, red eyes glittering. “Too much gold was being fettered away on this pointless exercise.”

“Pointless—!” The commander chokes on his rage. He jabs a finger at Papyrus. “I made you into this. I let you live despite lacking the stomach to hunt the vermin as you were instructed!”

“The rabbits sacrificed the majority of their warren every year for 24/7 protection from the guard from any threats. Why do rabbits deserve that more than froggits, or vulkins?”

“You know damn well why. They shit out 20 kids a year, they can afford to lose a few.”

“The Underground population dwindles every day,” Papyrus snaps. “If we continue to treat citizens like fodder, when we break through the barrier there will be no one left to reach the surface!”

The Commander snorts. “You don’t seriously believe that trite, do you? You’ll die down here, in the dark. As will your children, and your children’s children after them.”

The servant comes back to the door, puffing for breath. Two guards are in tow.

“The Rabbit Farm is finished. That exercise will no longer exist, for as long as I remain King. If you fail to comply I will not hesitate to replace you.” Papyrus’ gaze flicks to the guards. “Escort the Commander out.”

The Commander glowers, and for a moment it appears as if he might stay to continue the argument. But instead, he gives a stiff bow, and walks out of the room, the guards following close behind.

Papyrus shuts the door in his wake, and returns to his desk. His eyes can’t focus on the words before him. The Commander’s visit brings back memories he’s tried his best to forget. The Rabbit Farm. _Her_.

His soul pounds with an old, familiar fear.

~*~

Sans is roused from his drowsing state as the door creaks open. He sits up, rubbing at an eye socket and squinting at the light.

“You’re here early.” Early for Papyrus, at least. It’s barely ten now; it’s rare for Papyrus to slip into the bedroom before one in the morning.

“Couldn’t focus.” Papyrus says, disrobing quickly and climbing into bed with Sans.

Papyrus pulls Sans close, pressing their chests together. Sans is smushed against his neck.

“Pretty cuddly tonight.”

“Mm.”

“Something happen today?”

Papyrus mumbles something incoherent, and pulls Sans closer. He doesn’t seem particularly emotional; it was probably just a stressful day, as usual. Sans lets it drop, and they fall asleep, still entwined.


	9. Coronation

The human is stronger than he could have ever prepared for.

They cast him to the ground with a single slice of their knife. All his years of training, all his experience, all for nothing.

The snow seeps through the sieves of his uniform. It’ll ruin the inner furred lining, he frets distantly, as marrow and dust bleed from the deep wound in his vertebrae. If he twists his neck the slightest bit, it’s liable to sever, that’s how tenuous the connection is.

The human approaches with a limp. Papyrus had attacked them with every weapon in his arsenal. He thought he knew how dangerous mankind was. Several attacks connected, the human letting slip soft grunts of pain, and Papyrus had foolishly thought he stood a chance. He knows now the human had only let him try.

“I’m disappointed,” The human says, but their tone is flat and uncaring. “I had hoped that you’d put up more of a fight, for all your bluster. The Great and Terrible Papyrus. Terrible, for sure.”

He resigns himself to death. He’s been prepared to die since he enlisted in the Royal Guard, but still, he had wanted to at least make amends with Sans, before the end.

Papyrus tracks the human sluggishly, with hazy eyelights. He waits for the finishing blow.

“You’re not worth the effort to kill.”

The human leaves him there, continuing past the border of Snowdin and into Waterfall. The crunch of their footsteps fades away, and Papyrus is alone.

Snow crackles softly as it lands on the ground. He doesn’t think he’s ever taken the time to listen to the slight, soft sound snow makes as it falls. It’s…peaceful.

“Papyrus!” A small voice squeaks. His eye sockets—when had he closed them?—drag open again.

“Flowey.” The name comes out slurred, raspy. Weak.

“What did they do to you?” Flowey sniffs. A leaf, ever so gently, brushes over the still-bleeding wound. “I just don’t understand. Why would they do this? I thought…”

“Still don’ get it?” Papyrus’ laugh is a wheezing cough. “’s kill or be killed.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

Two vines encircle Papyrus’ neck, like a snug collar. For a wild instant, Papyrus wonders if his longtime companion is going to finally prove him right and drop the façade, going to drain him of all his EXP now that he can’t fight back.

His neck warms, and the vines glow green. Papyrus gasps, smelling earth and roots, and the faintest whiff of cinnamon.

“There.” Flowey’s petals droop with exhaustion, but he’s smiling. “Like it never happened.”

Papyrus raises a trembling hand and drags it across his neck. He can still feel the mark of the human’s violence on him. Flowey saved him from dusting, but he knows already this will be another scar that never fades.

Flowey helps him back on his feet. Papyrus shakes the snow from his uniform, and collects the two halves of his scarf that’d been cut free with the human’s attack. He ties the ends together and winds the scarf back around his neck to disguise the mark.

“Thank you.” Papyrus offers, gruffly. If not for the flower’s intervention, he’d be… “Why did you save me?”

Flowey’s smile is bittersweet. “Don’t you know by now? We’re friends, Papyrus.”

Oh.

Flowey’s vines dig back into the soil. “I have to go now.”

“Where are you going?”

“Fr…the human is heading for King Asgore. I have to stop them.”

“Are you insane? The human—they’re more powerful than any of us thought.” Papyrus gesticulates animatedly. “You’re weak! What chance do you hope to stand?”

“I don’t know. I probably won’t be any help at all. But I can’t let King Asgore die.”

“Why?” Papyrus’ eye sockets narrow. Flowey never struck him as the patriotic type; rather, he always seems disheartened at the king’s merciless laws.

“Maybe I’ll tell you, after all this is done.” Is Flowey’s cryptic answer.

Flowey wraps his leaves around Papyrus’ leg, the briefest of hugs.

“Goodbye, Papyrus.”

Flowey dives under the soil, and is gone in an instant.

He’s safe, for the moment, at least. But by no means can he relax now. He’s spurred forward, propelled into Waterfall by one all-possessing thought: Sans could be at his station, directly on the human’s path. He isn’t scheduled for a shift there today—Papyrus had spoken with him just this morning at his Snowdin station—but Sans has a habit of popping from one workplace to the next, to catch up with friends, to make sure nothing has been stolen. If he decided to stop by his Waterfall station, right when the human came upon it…

Papyrus reaches the station. Everything is quiet and still, and there’s no one standing sentry. Papyrus braces himself on the station counter and peers inside it. A knot of worry unravels in his chest when he sees nothing but some abandoned mustard bottles. There’s no dust pile. Sans wasn’t here when the human came through. He’s _safe_.

Papyrus takes a step forward and nearly crumbles over. He grabs the sentry stand counter tightly, the mildewed wood splintering beneath his gloves. His last scrap of adrenaline has evaporated with the assurance of his brother’s safety. His body rattles with exhaustion.

This isn’t his first near scrap with death, but it’s definitely been his closest. He wants to race ahead to assist Undyne, but if he was no good against the human at full strength, what good would he be now?

A small part of him whispers that if the human takes out Undyne, then he’s next in line to be captain. He hates that part of himself, and digs his phone out from his pocket. His call to the captain (his rival, his friend) goes to voicemail. Has she already engaged the human? He leaves a terse message telling her to call him back.

Instead of challenging the human for a second time, he turns his back and staggers home. Shame burns his soul.

Coward.

~*~

“Sans?” Papyrus shoulders open the front door of their house.

The hellhound bays its greeting, trotting towards him for a few quick pets.

The set of stairs feel like they’re high as a mountain to his tired body, but still, he heaves himself up to the second floor.

Papyrus’ door is slightly ajar, when he knows he shut it when he left.

“Sans?”

His brother is on his bed, curled tightly in a ball, his eye sockets vacant.

Papyrus shakes his shoulder. Then again, rougher. “Sans. Wake up.”

A full body tremor runs through Sans, and his eyes reignite with awareness. He jerks up.

“P-Pap?”

Sans reaches out to him, and grasps the frayed ends of Papyrus’ scarf. He’s shaking so hard. Papyrus takes Sans’ hand, affirming that he’s right here.

“I’d…I thought…the human,” Sans swallows and looks away. Unable to finish the thought.

“As if some puny human could triumph over the Great and Terrible—” Papyrus stumbles over the word, just for a moment. “—Papyrus!”

“Heh. Heh heh heh.” Sans laughs, shoulders heaving. Papyrus abruptly realizes that he’s crying.

Papyrus climbs onto the bed with him, and tucks Sans’ head beneath his chin. If Sans had been working his Waterfall shift, he wouldn’t be here. If Flowey hadn’t saved him, neither would Papyrus. By some miracle, they’re both still alive. And for now, nothing else matters.

~*~

Papyrus wakes up to an empty bed and the smell of breakfast. He follows the scent to the kitchen, to Sans, cooking up bacon, eggs, and home fries on the stove. It’s absurd, all of it: Sans waking up well before Papyrus; his brother taking it upon himself to cook actual food instead of zapping leftovers; the banality of it all when everyone they know could be dead.

Sans sets a plate on the table for him. “Eat.”

The smell of food reminds Papyrus how ravenous he is, his body starved of magic and eager to replenish it. He spears food without bothering to cut anything up and shovels it into his mouth. The home fries are grease-laden, but he hardly tastes anything as he devours the food.

Sans drops two extra slices of bacon on Papyrus’ plate before taking a seat across from him with a plate of his own. Self-conscious of his eating method now that Sans is staring him down, Papyrus wipes his mouth with a napkin and slows down enough to actually taste the food he’s putting in him.

“So how’d you do it?” Sans asks, crunching down on a crispy slice of bacon and spraying crumbs over the front of his jacket. “How’d you get away?”

Papyrus swallows down his mouthful of eggs.

“I did not “get away”, brother.” Papyrus scolds him like it should be obvious. “I had the human at my mercy. They could barely stand. I was going to deliver them to King Asgore personally, when they took advantage of a distraction and escaped.”

There’s a moment where he dreads Sans will challenge his retelling of events, but Sans nods along. “…Of course. You’re so cool, boss.”

“Enough flattery. Hurry up and eat. We’ve got a job to do.”

“What kind of job, exactly?”

“We need to assess the situation. Find out where the human is, and,” Papyrus pauses, scraping the last of his breakfast into his mouth. “Eliminate the threat if it still exists.”

He doesn’t have a precise plan of attack for when they find the human, but he’ll worry about that when they track them down.

After Sans cleans his mouth with the inside of his hoodie, he grabs Papyrus’ arm and brings them into the basement of the Lab.

“This way.” Sans jerks his head in the direction of one hallway. Papyrus knows the way, of course. Perhaps Sans forgot he knew this place, too.

Footsteps patter towards them. Papyrus shoves Sans behind him, and magic buzzes at the tips of his phalanges.

Something rounds the corner of the hallway. It’s inhuman. Not a monster, either. The shambling, dripping mess of a thing looks vaguely like a canine. It weaves down the hallway towards them, crashing into the walls and leaving stains behind. It pants with the effort of living.

“Relax, boss. They’re supposed to be here.”

Sans tosses out a bone treat. The abomination bounds over to it. It doesn’t snatch up the treat, like their dog would, but instead it smashes its face to the floor, and when it lifts its head up again, the treat is gone.

“What is this…thing?”

“Not important. Let’s get a move on.”

Papyrus has more questions to ask—how does Sans know about this thing, are there any more, and how in the world did they come to be like this—but Sans leads him to the elevator. He punches in the code for the main floor. The elevator shudders to life and takes them up.

The lights are off, but the wall of screens illuminate the room well enough. Alphy’s cameras cover every corner of the Underground, saved the walled-off ruins.

“Pull up the footage of Waterfall from last night.” Papyrus gestures to the computer, a disgusted twist to his mouth at the piles of empty takeout containers.

Sans shoves ramen cups carelessly off the desk, and pulls out the chair.

A pile of dust sits atop it.

Sans’ grip on the back of the chair tightens, but after a moment he pulls out the chair and stands before the computer. He toggles back the date on the camera settings to the night before. He fast forwards through the hours.

“Stop,” Papyrus calls, seeing a flash of silver armor by the cliffs.

The footage plays. Without audio—Alphys hadn’t had the chance to install discreet microphones in them, yet—but it’s not needed. They watch Undyne challenge the human.

They watch her get cut down, struggle to rise again, only to get stabbed through her one remaining eye. The human grinds Undyne’s dust into the dirt and continues on.

Papyrus looks down to his cellphone. Undyne’s last text to him had been about some stupid movie she’d wanted him to watch with her next week. He’d blown off replying, to which she’d sent a series of threats with an increasing amount of exclamation points.

She never did call him back, last night. She never will.

“The human’s trail ends at the castle.” Sans reports, brining Papyrus back to the situation at hand. He smothers the grief inside him. He doesn’t have the time to mourn, not now. “No way to tell what went down once they went in.”

“Then that’s where we’ll look.” Papyrus heads for the front door, his scarf flourishing with the quick movement.

“Uh, boss?”

“What?” Papyrus snaps. Sans hasn’t followed after.

“What if—I mean, are you sure this is the smartest thing to be doing? We could go back to Snowdin. Wait for everything to die—uh, settle down.” Sans winces at his own poor phrasing.

“I can’t sit back and twiddle my thumbs here. I need to assess the situation. Besides, I’m a royal guard. How would it look if I didn’t show to defend my king?”

The front door of the Lab opens with a pneumatic hiss. The dry heat, which had been kept at bay until now, rolls over Papyrus in a thick wave. The door slides shut behind him.

Two steps away from the Lab Sans joins him, popping into the space beside him.

“What, did ya think I’d let you go alone? We’re in this together, bro.”

Their journey through Hotland and New Home is eerily quiet. They don’t pass by a single monster out on the street, save for the occasional dust pile. Papyrus spots a child in a window, peeking out at them with curiosity. The child is swiftly yanked back, the curtain drawn shut.

The two guards that stand post outside the king’s castle are notably absent.

“Stay behind me,” Papyrus mutters. If the human is still here, they don’t both have to die today.

The throne room is empty, but the door that blocks off the barrier from the public is unlocked. Papyrus nudges the door open, and steps inside.

They’ve come too late.

The floor is littered with broken glass. King Asgore’s trident lies abandoned on the floor. At Papyrus’ feet are several golden petals. Could the king have tracked them in? Or…

Sans nudges a large shard of glass with the tip of his sneaker. “These look like the casings the human souls were kept in. Or, uh, what’s left of them. Barrier’s still up, though. So maybe the human just took ‘em and left?”

Maybe they had been disappointed with the whole of monsterkind. Bored of them, they returned to their own world.

“No.” Sidestepping the glass, Papyrus hefts up the trident. It’s heavy. “I drove the human out. I saved monsterkind from extinction when King Asgore could not.”

Sans blinks at him, confused, and then he realizes what Papyrus intends to do. “Boss, you can’t.”

“With…with Undyne gone, and Alphys, and the King and Queen—there’s a power vacuum. Either I claim the throne, or someone else will. And they could be weak, and plunge the Underground into a lawless hell. Or, they could be strong, and crueler than even King Asgore was. There’s no better alternative.”

“Papyrus…I get what you’re saying, in theory, but think about it. Really think about what it would mean for—”

“For us?”

“No, you idiot. For _you_.”

Papyrus stiffens. “I am more than adequate to fill the position, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” Sans is staring at the trident in Papyrus’ hand with a peculiar expression on his face. Papyrus doesn’t know what to make of it. “I’ve seen what being king does to a monster. It won’t be easy. There’ll be so much to learn. The stress—it’d be a million times easier for you if you just became captain of the guard.”

“I have to do this.” It’s not narcissism that drives his choice—it’s pragmatism. He’ll shoulder this responsibility, for all monsterkind. It’s the least he can do to atone for his cowardice.

Sans stares at him, hard, then shrugs as if to say  “what the hell”.

“Guess we’re really doing this.”

~*~

After Papyrus and Sans return from the barrier’s edge, they flag down a servant and order a message sent out to the Underground. Papyrus is to be the new King. His coronation is to be held within the month. Also included in the missive is the note that, should any wish to contest Papyrus’ right to rule, they are free to challenge him to a one on one duel up until the coronation day.

A handful of monsters are dumb enough to try. Sans stands at Papyrus’ side, watching as his brother claims one victory after the next. He never kills the challengers, but neither do they leave in one piece. After the fifth challenger for the throne hobbles home on his one remaining limb, monsters catch on that Papyrus is not a ruler so easily deposed, and the demands for duels trickle to nothing.

Sans can’t get a moment alone with his brother. Whenever Sans thinks he has a few minutes, before he can sidle up to him for a quick kiss, there’s a servant that needs the measurements of his skull for the crown sizing, or a baron who wants to give his congratulations and not-so-subtly size up the future king.

They have separate beds in the estate, separate rooms. Papyrues doesn’t reside in the royal bedchambers, not yet. The servants work to remove any lingering fur and arrange the décor to the skeleton king’s taste.

Sans and Papyrus sleep in separate wings of the castle, and it’s fine. Really, it is. It’s not like they shared a room in their previous home, either.

But they’d been circling each other, ever since Papyrus had left the guard training academy and tracked him down in Snowdin. They’d spent several nights together. Sans thought they were moving past the rough patch of their relationship, moving towards something, but it’s over now. They’re under the public eye, no longer free to live their lives in a backwater town that no one cares about. Their physical relationship would have consequences.

Incestuous relationships are rare Underground. Typically nobles are the only ones to get away with it without any consequence, wedding cousins and siblings to preserve a lineage. Sometimes, there’s inevitable overlap in certain species. So few of them remain down here, after all. Regardless, the last thing Papyrus needs is the scandal of a relationship with his brother when his kingship is not yet stable.

Sans channels his pent up frustration into the nights he spends alone, but his fingers are a pale imitation of how Papyrus feels inside him. More often than not, he falls asleep unfinished, still wound up.

He can’t wait until the coronation is over. Once the frantic planning ends, they can sit down together and have a proper talk. (And maybe something more.)

~*~

“Sans?”

He squints balefully at his brother, who’s here, in his bedroom, at the asscrack of dawn.

“Some of us need sleep, jackass.” Sans mumbles, halfway back to dozing again.

Papyrus hovers by the bed.

“Can I…?” He touches the edge of the comforter.

Sans obliges, scooting back some so Papyrus can climb into bed with him. The mattress is large enough for them to both be comfortable, but Papyrus presses close, resting his head against Sans’ chest. He’d done much the same when they’d been children, marching over to Sans and putting himself in Sans’ lap until he was hugged and comforted.

“Coronation’s not ‘till two.”

“I know.”

Sans wants nothing more than to turn over and fall back to sleep, but that’d be needlessly cruel. Papyrus didn’t rouse him without cause.

“What’s eating you?”

Papyrus’ answer is a hushed confession.

“I don’t know if I can do this.”

 _That_ wakes Sans up. Papyrus reads the sudden alarm in his face easily.

“I’m not going back on what I said. Even if I wanted to renounce the throne, there’d be retribution. We certainly couldn’t go back to Snowdin and live life as it was. I just…I wonder if I’m cut out for this. I don’t want to tarnish the crown.”

“Boss, c’mon. Don’t be so down on yourself. You’re going to be a great king. I’m not just sayin’ that. I’ve worked for you _and_ Asgore, remember? You’ll do fine.” Sans tone becomes careless, teasing. “And hey, if you do end up sucking at the job, no big deal. We’ll just both be beheaded, probably.”

“Oh, is that all?” Papyrus’ mouth quirks. “I suppose I’ll have to stay one step a-head of my enemies.”

“You’ll head them off at the pass.”

“You can’t reuse the pun I just did for your own pun.”

“Who says? It’s too early for creativity.” Sans burrows into Papyrus’ side, and sleep comes easy.

~*~

The coronation ceremony is held at the largest and oldest cathedral in New Home. No expense is spared to welcome in the new King: the city’s main street is festooned with interwoven garlands and ribbons. The common folk are provided entertainment with a festival; free food and drink, games for the children and dances for the adults. The celebration is choked with guards, their uniforms a constant reminder to everyone to keep the peace or face the consequences. Aristocrats were sent gold-lined invitations to the ceremony. Several had written letters back, sneering at the thought of a lowborn like Papyrus taking the crown, claiming they would refuse to recognize his rule. Sans has the suspicion that the pews will be full, anyway.

Papyrus is led down main street from the castle, towards the church, his entourage escorted by a battalion of soldiers. His entourage is rather small, consisting of a few spare servants and, of course, Sans.

For the ceremony, Papyrus wears a form-fitting tunic and matching trousers, complete with a grand red cape. A departure from King Asgore’s violet cape and jet-black armor, the royal crest emblazoned on the back of Papyrus’ cape is the one similarity they share. Papyrus is making a statement. He’s not Asgore, and doesn’t plan to imitate him.

The royal tailor focused on crafting a fine outfit for Papyrus, so her understudies were given the assignment of Sans’ outfit. Unsure of Sans’ exact social standing—as Sans himself still is—the tailors-in-training played it safe, and now Sans wears a simple but well made tunic spun of red and gold thread. The high collar itches; it takes great restraint on Sans’ part not to scratch. Uncomfortable regal clothing seems to be in much of Sans’ future, so he better start getting used to it now.

Papyrus stands tall and proud as they move from the castle to the church. He gives off an aura that says the people are right to stare and gawk; he is their new king, his presence _should_ leave them awed and speechless. The meek, overwhelmed boy Sans saw this morning is gone now, replaced with a fearless man. It’s admirable, but Sans can’t deny the ache in his heart. He pities his brother; it’s far from the first time he’s had to bury his feelings and do what must be done. It’s unfair, but when has life ever been kind?

The church doors, over thirty feet high, are opened for them by two men of the cloth. The ancient building is lit by candlelight, and the cavernous hall houses the smell of centuries of burnt wax. Sans cranes his neck to look at each individual pane of stained glass they pass by. The multicolored windows tell the story every child knows, of how the humans had cast them into the Underground, how Asgore vowed monsters would grow strong again, become powerful enough to reclaim their homeland. Not for the first time, Sans wonders if things could have ever been different down here, if monsters had been content with their new home and not consumed by what had been lost.

The nobles are already seated in the pews, and applaud politely as the group passes them. Sans scans the crowd, making mental notes on which smiles are most forced, those who would be most hostile to his brother’s takeover.

Sans settles into a seat in the front row, the servants sitting beside him. Papyrus alone strides forward to kneel before the high priest. An alter boy hands the priest a clear glass bowl, filled with dust.

The high priest rattles off a string of prayers in the old tongue. Sans had been taught it long ago, but has retained very little. He only catches the occasional word—“duty”, “king”, “angel”—but he can imagine the gist. Not letting up on his mantra, the high priest dips his thumb in the dust. A curl of disgust flickers through Sans as the priest drags a circle—the angel’s motif—on Papyrus’ forehead. The dust is dull grey against the white of Papyrus’ bone. Old dust from monsters long dead. Some monsters indicate their dust to be used in sacred rituals when they die. Sans personally has never understood the appeal.

Another priest comes forward, bearing the crown on a red velvet pillow. It’s a dazzling thing, encrusted with gemstones from Above. The high priest takes the crown with grace. He holds it aloft, uttering a blessing upon Papyrus before the crown is placed upon his head.

“By the power bestowed upon me by the Angel above, I appoint Papyrus Serif to henceforth be known as King Papyrus, first of his name, ruler of all the barrier holds, lord of the great plains Above. Long may he reign!”

“Long may he reign!” The crowd roars, welcoming their new King.

~*~

Now that Papyrus’ office is officially certified, it does not take long for noble daughters and sons to start circling the ultimate prize. Papyrus is young yet, full of vitality and vigor. He has the potential to rule for some time, but he will need an heir, ultimately.

Papyrus never refuses a request to meet, eager as he is to acquaint himself with the political players of this new world he’s in. Still, that doesn’t mean Sans has to like it.

“Forgive me if I’m overstepping my bounds here, my King, but there was truly no one better suited to take over for King Asgore, Angel rest his soul.” Gushes the latest daughter, at their latest brunch. Her green dress has a plunging neckline that borders on obscene.

“How so?” Papyrus asks, taking a small bite of his toast.

She leaps to praise him. “Why, everyone knows how you whipped that backwater town into shape. No ordinary monster could have gotten those reprobates in line.”

Sans’ teeth grind at her easy dismissal of the Snowdin townsfolk. They are a scrappy bunch, to be sure, but Sans would rather be at Grillby’s greasy dive bar than humoring this woman any day.

“That is kind of you to say.”

“And of course, that’s to say nothing of your bravery.” The lady continues. “To fight the human, to drive them away and save us all…your power is incredible.”

Papyrus hums in agreement. “My one regret is that they fled before I could rip their soul from their chest.”

The lady swoons, and Sans rolls his eyes at her pathetic excuse for flirting. Her hand rests on the table. Every moment, her pinky moves just that little bit closer to Papyrus’ own hand.

“Don’t you think you’re rushing things here?” Sans points out her creeping hand. “You’ve spoken with my brother for hardly an hour.”

The lady draws back, startled at being addressed by Sans. Her eye on the prize, it seems she’d all but forgotten he was there, too. Sans can feel Papyrus’ reproachful gaze on him, but doesn’t acknowledge it.

The lady snatches back her hand, her face pink. The flush to her cheeks makes her lovelier still, and Sans hates her for that.

“Forgive me, my King. I didn’t mean to be so forward.

Papyrus sets his utensils down. “Think nothing of it. My brother is just very…overprotective. If you’ve finished, why don’t we continue our conversation elsewhere? Your father spoke to me of your affection for music. We happen to have several grand pianos here from the surface.”

“It’d be my honor, King Papyrus.”

She latches on to his arm, pressing close to his side.

“Why don’t you go on ahead?” Papyrus suggests. “A servant will guide you to the piano room. I need to have a few words with my brother, first.”

“Alright.” She reluctantly releases him, and giggles girlishly on her way out the door. “Don’t keep me waiting too long!”

“Sans.” The polite, regal lilt to Papyrus’ voice falls back into his usual rasp the second they’re alone together.

“Yeah, boss?”

“I think that muffin has had as much as it can take.”

Sans looks down. He hadn’t had much of an appetite, but plucked a muffin from the centerpiece of breakfast pastries. Throughout the brunch he’s shredded it to crumbs in his hands.

Annoyed at himself for such an obvious display of irritation, Sans drops the last bits of balled in his hands onto the plate and shoves it away from him.

“Well? What are you still doing here?” Sans asks, snidely. “Don’t mind me. I wouldn’t want to ruin your latest date.”

“Don’t be stupid, Sans.” But he _was_ stupid. Stupid to hope that a few desperate nights together in Snowdin had meant something _more_ for the two of them.

“She’s trying to take advantage of you! She just wants—”

“I know what she wants. But what I want out of this hinges on her thinking she’s had her way. So just trust me, Sans. I know what I’m doing.”

Papyrus straightens his cape before stepping out to catch up with the lady.

The table is laden with untouched food, but Sans feels too sick with jealousy to eat.

~*~

“You want me to what?”

“Go on a walk with me.” Papyrus repeats, patiently. He holds out his hand for Sans to take, a formal invitation.

Sans rummages for his day schedule, buried somewhere in the mess of papers on his desk.

“I can’t. I’m meeting with some people for the Royal Scientist position—”

“I have already notified them that the interviews have been postponed until tomorrow.”

Three weeks ago, Sans would have leapt at the chance to spend a moment with Papyrus, alone. But ever since Papyrus started inviting over lords and ladies, all intent on wooing him, Sans hasn’t made a single effort to seek out his brother. His soul aches with hurt, but he tries to remain coolly indifferent.  

“You go ahead and walk, then.” Sans crosses his arms, leans back, and closes his eyes. “I’m going to use my free time to take a nap.” He damn well deserves one, too.

“Please.”

Sans’ eyes open at that. Despite his kingly attire, in this moment Papyrus looks vulnerable.

“I really think we should talk.”

“Fine.” Sans can’t ever really deny him.

Papyrus offers his arm, which throws Sans off for a moment. He’s not some beau. But he takes the offered arm, and Papyrus leads him to the gardens.

It had been odd to find such a well-tended garden of flowers and willowy trees in the castle courtyard, stranger still to learn that Asgore himself had planted most of the flowers and maintained their health.

The air in the garden is earthy, flowery, how Sans imagines Aboveground might smell like. He breathes deep, enjoying the change from the usual musty, stale air.

“I wanted to ask your opinion on something.” Papyrus’ voice pulls him from the slight trance nature had put him into.

“Yeah?”

They’ve stopped at a small pond. Leaves and petals mottle the water like dabs of paint on a canvas.

“The suitors I’ve met with so far. What do you think of them?”

Is he trying to rub it in?

“What do I care?” Sans bites out. “I don’t give a fuck. Marry whoever you want.”

“I’ve been advised to marry early. Wedding a fellow noble would tie me to one of the old houses, and help form a more stable kingdom. Nobles are less likely to balk at my rule when one of their own is beside me.”

“Sounds like you have it all figured out.” Sans says, stiffly. “This has been a nice little chat and all, but I should get back to work. If you want my blessing to go ahead, or whatever,” Sans gestures loosely. “There. You have it.”

He turns to retreat, the rims of his sockets burning with the threat of frustrated tears.

Papyrus stops him with a firm grip on his arm.

“That’s not what I want from you.” Papyrus turns Sans to face him. Sans’ breath catches at the fondness in his eyes. “You’ve always been the most important person to me. You must know that. It’d be wise to marry a noble, but I could never be happy with anyone else.”

“What are you saying?” Sans asks, weakly.

“I love you.”

And then he leans close and captures Sans’ mouth in a searing kiss. Sans’ soul sings in his chest. He wraps his arms around Papyrus’ neck, pushing into the kiss. Papyrus’ declaration is more than he’d ever dared to hope for.

“I love you too, Papyrus. I think I always have.”

“In that case,” Papyrus pulls a ring from his pocket, a plain but fine gold band. Papyrus had known he wouldn’t want anything over the top. Papyrus kisses Sans’ knuckles before he slides the ring onto his finger with reverence. “Please do me the honor of being my one and only Queen.”

Feeling overwhelmed, a peal of laughter bursts free from Sans’ mouth. “Why’d you have to be so damn dramatic about it?” Sans wipes tears from his face. He can’t stop staring down at the ring on his finger. His face hurts from grinning so wide.

“I wanted to be clear. You’re mine.”

“I’m yours.” Sans agrees. “And you’re mine.”

This time, Sans is the one that pulls Papyrus in for a kiss.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [In The Family Way](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9528272) by [therentistoodamnhigh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/therentistoodamnhigh/pseuds/therentistoodamnhigh)




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